The Calm & The Storm
by Eshenezrai
Summary: Clary's mother Lily Morgenstern is long gone, leaving her with her shark of a father, Valentine. Will life always be this way: tip-toeing around the house and then trying to hide the fact that she has to from the rest of the world? Or will a certain heartless, golden-eyed boy change that? TW: Emotional and physical abuse - please don't read if you think it would be detrimental.
1. Introductions & Orange Juice

**Hi! This is the first chapter of TCATS and my first Fanfiction so it might take me a while to get a hang of things -sorry in advance haha! Also, i'm setting this story in Brooklyn but, being very British myself, if i get some words or 'highschool' stuff a bit wrong feel free to correct me x **

**Thanks :D**

Chapter One: Introductions and Orange Juice

It is an normal Tuesday afternoon at a very average 2 PM and I am in a soporificly mediocre English class when I first discover I quite like the idea of being a cloud.

Imagine: you're mindlessly suspended in a lulling turquoise mass, the sun is heating your back and the mundane ,human world is far, far below you. At once, existence would be more peaceful and more thrilling. The landscape you would see; Lakes filled with still, black water reflecting there surrounding towering snowcapped peaks, cities still a light in the dead of night, neon billboards casting rosy shadows onto the moon darkened streets, or even boat filled harbours coated in dappling golden sunlight as the sparkling waves rock both crew an-

"Miss Morgenstern? Miss Morgenstern?" Mrs. Crippis' voice called out in a singsong tone, breaking my blissful daydream.

"Are you with us, Miss Morgenstern?"

"Yes, uh, yep, sorry" I manage to fumble.

Simon playfully yawned "unfortunately" under his breath from the desk beside me. I feel to conceal a smile and roll my eyes which causes him to push his glasses up his nose as a prideful habit of getting a reaction out of me. Thankfully, by this point Mrs. Crippis had completely refocused her attention on the common themes throughout the works of Shakespeare. English is an even that bad when compared to the horrors of history but you can still see why I would much prefer to be a cloud.

A worksheet is handed out that asks as to try to write in the style of Shakespeare about one of his key themes. I write about nature. I write about the simplicity of life as a cloud.

Then last period comes around and with it my daily dose of fear that is difficult to swallow with a dry throat but once you force it down it rolls around in your stomach making your cheek flash with itching heat. The fear of going home. Even today, when last period is chemistry, one of the subjects I understand, and my teacher throws a surprise test on our last topic, coils and uncoils in my stomach. You will find me one of the a few students to like a surprise test because any surprise that breaks the mundane every day of school is a plus from me. Especially in chemistry. Mr Bartholomew (all Bart as most of the student body call him) introduces the test as I walk through the door, test papers already set out on desks.

Simon isn't in my chemistry class which is my only problem; with the fleeting survey of the room and in awkward however at the entrance, I search for an agreeable seat. A hover that had only lasted 0.0047 seconds that was apparently a tortuously long wait for the self-proclaimed god walking – Jace Herondale. He pushes pass me with an impatient huff and upon impact I involuntarily flinch, having to clamp my arms to my sides instead of jumping halfway across the classroom. Somewhere in my body and old pain it has kindly been rekindled but I can't quite feel where.

He really isn't all he thinks he is I mentally scoff, but at least now I know he has an extremely effective elbows so I'll give him that. Two steps further into the classroom he pauses, as it's realising what he's done. He turns his head to me, opens his mouth as if to apologise and abruptly shuts it , turns back around and claims the seat next to the window on the far right the classroom. Uhhhh, what was that?

Taking a seat next to a girl called Maia who I knew vaguely through Simon, I realised that Jace hadn't looked in my eyes, his eyes had just blankly stared at the vicinity of my face. That's odd right? Actually, I have no idea what the 'norm' is for Jace Herondale and I have no motive to find out. Simon has an ongoing theory that the entire Herondale-Lightwood clan were robots but I rather believe that is just because he can't quite comprehend that Isabelle Lightwood is a living, breathing human person. I'm not too sure how I feel about the way Jace, Isabelle and Alec float above high school as if they were made for a higher purpose, but then again I guess I've never really thought about it.

I look to my left and see Maia, pen in hand scribbling away at questions on that history of the atom. Her hair is a burnt Bronze mass of dense curls and it falls around her face, draping onto the stark white paper. Looking at her stop writing and tap her pen on the desk as she scrunches her eyebrows together with the peculiar type of innocent ferocity that I think somehow only rightfully belongs on the face of a teenage girl, fills me with a sickening jealousy. And I mean literally sickening. I can taste sick in my mouth.

From what I knew of Maia, she is a loud, brave and boisterous girl who would never even think to be scared of the world and I rather think the world should be scared of her. Simon had once been quite smitten. But the acid in my throat wasn't a product of my jealousy of Simon's fleeting affection, it was rather born of my hot envy of the energy because she possesses from day-to-day, her fight or fight reflex. I saw it once in a corridor full of ninth graders, at Two verse one fight, well to verse a half really, and she stepped in without hesitating pull them apart and I assume give the perpetrators some kind of lecture but I already passed the spectacle, swept up in the flow of the student body.

I just feel so tired all the time. My feet start dragging a few years ago and I don't think they have stopped.

This all took a few seconds of thought before I opened my topic quiz and put black biro to white paper. Somehow I still finished with 20 minutes left (according to the big white hanging clock at the front of the classroom) -as I said: chemistry I just kind of get. I flick back through the paper idley but I'm already pretty sure they're right so instead I turn to the back of the paper and pull a pencil from my pencil case. Doodling was one of my favourite in lesson pass times, or as my history teacher likes to call it "distraction".

Just as I put pencil to paper a loud sound of chair scraping on the floor came from the back right of the classroom. Out of instinct I whip my head to the sounds origin. Jace Herondale, again, out of his seat, walking to the teachers desk at the front of the classroom. I turn back around.

"Mr. Herondale, please remain in your seat" implores mr Bartholomew, pointing at the clock but he sighs and rubs his eyes when Jace keeps walking towards his desk.

Bart has given up the battle before it has even begun.

Jace throws his test right onto Mr Bartholomew's keyboard and it turns towards the door.

"Mr Herondale" he calls again, louder this time but still with the same undertone of helplessness. He rolls back from his desk and turns his chair so he can follow Jace with his eyes. Alas, it's no use and Jace is out the door.

Bart, with another sigh, turns back to the paper on his desk. He picks it up and flicks through it. Which I assume is the check the Jace actually finished, before just placing it onto a large pile of marking.

Casting my eyes downwards once again I try to remember if this is what is expected of Jace, or if this is out of the ordinary and something has ruffled his wings. Finally, I put pen to paper and it is only when the bell goes signalling the end of the day do I notice to reeling fear my stomach and the sketch unfocused eyes on my page, staring somewhere over my left shoulder.

Simon walks halfway home with me, as usual. We walk along on the main road littered with shops and he talks about the new Star Wars film coming out-something along the lines of "I hope Daisy Ridley is good, I mean of course she will be, right? They wouldn't have hired her if not but I just don't think I'll be able to handle it if this film flops". Simon is the talker and I'm in the listener. Most of the time I don't have any idea what he's talking about

"Si, you know ive never seen a star wars movie,"

"Gasp," and yes he has a habit of saying 'gasp' instead of actually 'gasping'. With a hand on his heart and a look of feigned horror, he continues:

"Clarissa Morgernstern has officially committed the worst crime of all. Written in act two paragraph 27 of the law for all 17 -year-olds - punishable only by orange juice"

He finishes and stops on the pavement.

"Orange juice?" I question incredulously, a little smile at Si's classic antics managing to spread on my lips. Instead of answering he darts into a shop a few metres back, leaving me on the pavement to check my watch. It's 3:42. I have to be back by four, it's okay I'll make it. Simon reappears two minutes of me tapping my foot and wringing my hands later with two little bottles of orange juice.

"What's this for?"

"Act 2, paragraph 47-"

"-27-"

"-27 decrees it the only suitable punishment"

"You didn't get me orange juice when I said I haven't watched Fight Club" I say raising my eyebrows. He shifts his weight from foot to foot.

"well, truthfully Clary, and don't take this the wrong way," he adds hastily, "you've been looking a little peaky today and I read in health class, well actually it was just some book about vampires, that orange juice is a good restorer of energy." Finishing with a sigh, he casts his eyes downwards.

"And I bet-"

"I'm fine Simon-" We both start at the same time.

"I knew you'd say that" he murmurs, eyes still on the pavement.

There's a lump in my throat. It's the anniversary of my mothers death today. She died three years ago now so maybe it's like tri-anniversary or something. Her hair was soft, dark like a midnight sky, and when she kissed my forehead and said good night it would tickle my face. The light on my ceiling gave her a halo of the brightest gold and her eyes, reminded me of the honey-coated warmth of security. I remember she was at least half a foot taller than me but not much else. Her eyes and hair I cling onto. Every little memory I have of Lily Morgenstern is coated in a fuzzy gold- the kind of gold that coats your eyelids in a dozy sleep.

It's the anniversary of mums death and that makes tonight a danger night.

Simon, I realise, has already taken his turning off the mainstreet before I can say sorry for being such an ungrateful friend. Three minutes from home and I hope in some sort of freak accident this Brooklyn sidewalk swallows me whole.

Valentine Morgenstern lives in a gated community. Valentine Morgenstern co-owns an investment company. Valentine Morgenstern knows every senior police officer (and their wives) by name. Valentine Morgenstern is untouchable but, I, most definitely, am not.

I think Simon has guessed at it, the way his eyes darken every time I flinch or grimace lets me know that in some un-confirmed way: he knows. He knows the way Valentine's hand will clench more easily on a Friday night after one or two glasses of whiskey or the way the vase on the kitchen island gets replaced almost every month or the lock on my bedroom door that can only be opened from the outside. I think he knows. Yet, he hasn't said anything which is why I still allow myself to keep him around. Who am I kidding, I'm pretty dependent by this point. I also think I love him, in a totally, unchangeably platonic kind of way. He is the one constant that I will never find boring.

The Morgenstern Manor is an old house full of wooden beams and creaking staircases. There are two stories plus a large attic that used to be mum's art studio. It's a pretty open layout with lots of mirrors which Valentine asked the interior decorator to install in order to make the house 'more modern' but I always suspected it was just so I never knew when 'Big Brother' was watching me.

If I cook well tonight maybe, just maybe I'll be able to postpone the inevitable. With this glimmer of hope in my mind I hang my bag in the entryway on my labelled hook and get to work chopping a near multitude of veg. Some steamed, some roasted – just how he likes it. Whilst they cook I check I check the entryway for muddy shoe-prints and let out a breath I didn't know I was holding when there's nothing to be seen.

Reading the roman numerals of the clock on the wall it's 4:45, he's due home at 5 on the dot so I remove two marinading steaks from the fridge and set them on the hot griddle.

The clock ticks to 5. The table is set. No sign of him. Must be stuck in traffic.

5:10. I've plated the food. Still no sign.

5:15. The food is cold. The traffic must be really bad. This won't help his mood.

At 5:25 the black Mercedes rolls through the tall black gates and approaches the house. There's something else about Valentine Morgenstern that I cant be the only one to sense: every time he walks into a room everything turns cold.

Simon would liken it to something along the lines of the 'Dementor effect'.

So when he opens the door I feel my blood begin to crystallize. His body fills the doorway as he stands there looking at the table, then his eyes look to mine and pin my entire body frozen. He drops his suitcase to the floor.

"Steak?" he asks as if the world feels sour to his tongue.

"I marinated it yesterday so I thought…" trailing off only because I couldn't seem to force anymore words around the ever-larger lump in my throat. There's a short silence, this, I feel, is it : The Calm Before The Storm. I exhale.

"I like steak, thank you Clarissa." I have to bite my tongue before I let out a crude 'What?'. My eyes are surely not still in their sockets.

He has sat at the table and, noticing my silence, said: "You don't have to eat with me, take your plate to your room if you like" all the while I haven't moved an inch.

"No, I don't mind. I can stay down here." Responding cautiously is a failsafe, a net at the bottom of a shadowed drop.

"Clarissa, don't make me repeat myself, you can take the plate."

So I do.

My chest feels light, airy, like I can actually breath. I leave my bedroom door ajar and pull my A3 sketchpad onto my desk whilst a strip of cabbage hangs from my mouth. I paint Simon in acrylics, a portrait of him in his brown jacket, glasses askew against a green and blue background. The colours are vibrant and every touch of my brush carfeul. I stick it to my wall with blu-tac, among homework projects and even my favourite poem, printed in black and white.

Then, for the ninth time in nine years, I sketch Lily Morgenstern. The pencil touches have to be feather light or it will refuse to look like her at all. Last year, I used watercolours – watered down until they were barely there and splodged different shades all over the sketch; highlighting in gold leaf. Gold leaf borrowed from the art lab for a homework assignment.

Today, the acrylics, oils, charcoals, watercolours and watercolour pencils all lie their blankly on my desk. After much deliberation, I decide on the charcoals and commence the creation of an expanse of sharp lines and soft, soft shadows. The sky outside is pink by the time I've finished and I'm happy with the likeness.

I scribble my signature in the bottom right like my art teacher told me to do before flipping it over and, in sooty black, scrawling 'I love you Mom'.

I couldn't stomach the steak in the end.

So that was the first chapter... eeeeeek! Bit of an emotional whirlpool but lets hope Clary finds dry land x.

Let me know what you think & i'll try to respond next chapter (coming soonish?)

**This is the curtain call of The Calm And The Storm: Chapter One.**


	2. Ketchup

**Enjoy! (or don't, enjoyment is entirely subjective).**

**Chapter Two: Ketchup**

My eyes are crusted with sleep the next morning, and when I swing my legs out from underneath the covers, my room is jarringly cold. This can only mean one thing: Fall is here.

I walk to the bathroom - if you can call it walking when I'm trying to reduce the surface area of my barefoot touching the icy floor as much as possible - to the extent that I end up looking more like a clumsy flamingo than a seventeen year old humanoid. My en-suite, thankfully, has a near to scalding to shower and so I let the almost painfully hot water wash away my sleep and sooth my forever-tense muscles. I tilt my head to the ceiling and close my eyes tight, focusing only on the miniature collection of rivers I have created on my cheeks.

I stand there for what I know is too long. Then, almost unconsciously, I get out. Wrapped in a towel, I plod back to my room and pull out some too-big, baggy, blue, jeans and a grey long-sleeved t-shirt. In the mirror the only thing that doesn't blend into the wall behind me is my hair and even then I wish it would. Its starting to dry; one side is already frizzy, the other flatter than a pancake. I think it's time to give up this age-old battle. Afterall, its only hair. The sound of the engine of Valentine's car revs and retreats.

I skip breakfast.

Wednesdays are my favourite days of the week. Double art, study period, Maths, English. With art first, I really can't miss the bus. I grab my bag and carefully replace my favourite set of sketching pencils before practically jumping the entire flight of stairs. Using my thumb, I struggle whilst levering my pre-tied shoes onto my feet for a few seconds. Damn hot water. Damn my unbreakable habit of sleeping in to the last possible second. I check for my keys and rush to get out the door. It clicks locked behind me.

8:18. Taking two steps at a time, I make it through the open gates (making sure they close behind me) and start down the street. There's a man taking a leisurely dog walk on the other side of the road and I realise in absolute dismay that his leisurely stroll easily matches my speed-walk. Damn my vertically-challenged legs.

The street is otherwise empty, grey and lined with high, green hedges – broken only by even taller steel gates. Fog has set in heavily this morning. Red and brown leaves lie under my converse but don't crunch yet which is really rather unsatisfying. The air smells distinctly of oncoming winter and chaps my lips almost instantly.

It seems my anxiety about missing the bus was for nothing when I arrive at the stop a whole ten minutes early. I breath a sigh of relief. That is the third time this week I have rushed myself to the state of frenzy for the sake of nothing. I need to stop doing that.

The bus comes and I get on. Once inside, I press the backs of my hands to my cheeks in an attempt to stifle their inevitable flush. I don't think this method works at all but for some reason I still do it every time I emerge from any cold environment. Looking in the bus window I resolve that pressing my hands to my cheeks in an attempt to make them return to their normal colour most definitely does nothing. I may as well have smeared ketchup on my face.

Let me tell you, if there's one piece of advice I wish to pass on after the reaper's predestined visit it's this: Never (and I mean never) try to nap on a bus. First of all the window will bounce your brain around in you skull until it looks more like scrambled egg than muscle. Second, you're caught between a rock(X) and a hard place(Y) - where X = the tantalising idea of a few more seconds of shut-eye to a person who really needs to wake up, and Y = the throat-constricting anxiety that you'll close your eyes for too long and miss your stop. And, most importantly, everyone else on the bus will be watching your head hit the back of your chair as it wakes you up.

In a short eternity, I arrive in the front parking lot of my school. It's a bleak building to say the least. Barely a building really, it looks like some mighty giant of sub-par architecture plucked a few blocks of concrete up and then threw them back down in a haphazard manner and called it 'modernism'.

Then out of nowhere, a car beeps it's horn about two metres away from me. Somehow I had wondered into the middle of the road. I blame the sleep deprivation. The car itself is sleek, red and expensive looking – totally out of place in front of 'Alicante High'. Hardly waiting for me to take two steps out of the way, the car accelerates right over where I was just standing. The wind created sends my hair up around my face as though I'd just jumped into icy water. Then it returns to my shoulders and I break the surface.

Rather ungracefully, I try to rub re-formed sleep out of my eyes with the palm of my hand – rendering me temporarily blind and then look back up at the grey building. My eyes flick over it's varying skyline with an unintentional air of scepticism.

There's something weird about the idea of a school. When you break it down it just becomes a gathering place for hundreds of strangers. Until, of course, they're not strangers.

"Well, well, well," a familiar voice looms from behind me, "If it isn't Miss Clarissa Morgenstern, how is your ladyship this fine morn'?"

I spin around, a whisper of a smile running its way across my lips, whilst grabbing onto the straps of my backpack. Perhaps, with a little spring to my step. Yesterday was over and now it was today.

"Si, I still can't understand how you're so awake all the time. It's a Wednesday morning for Christ's sake" I respond to my best friend and watch his face near-to-break with an ear to ear smile at my good mood. Have I mentioned my adoration of this bumbling idiot?

As if to prove my point he almost trips over his own foot whilst climbing the few stairs outside the front of Alicante. Luckily he manages to balance himself at the last moment before face-planting and turns to me and says:

"Ninja"

All the while his award-winning grin never leaves his face. I can't explain it but I just know today is going to be a good day.

Murals and students' work cover every single inch of all four walls of the art classroom. Colours clash and it's chaos in it's purest form, but its just right. The air smells of stale paint and I feel my shoulders relax. I follow Simon through the heavy door and to two seats on the front row. We're the first people in the room so, naturally, Simon starts up a conversation with our art teacher.

Simon was very much a teacher's pet. The type of teacher's pet who gets away with things no one else would because of a teacher's barely hidden bias, and that the other students don't hate. In fact, most other students really liked Simon – I'd go as far as to say he was popular.

In my seventeen years of study, I have come to a conclusion: there are two types of popular. There's the 'we're-so-scary-and-insecure-don't-you-dare-talk-to-us-we're-too-good-for-you' populars and then there's just the generally super-likeable populars. The Herondale-Lightwood clan would classify as the former. Simon definitely classifies as the latter. In a world of fridges he is a much needed radiator.

As they talk and the rest of the class filter through the door, I smile in all the right places, after every one of Si's jokes that I've already heard at least ten times before. He says his jokes get better with age, like all good things in this world such as fine wine or cheese. I always deny it but really, some jokes are actually funnier the fifth time. Perhaps ten times is pushing it though.

Our art teacher is a young woman with brown hair pulled back into some type of knot, a long, grey, skirt covered in a pattern of small daisies and flat, black, leather boots. Her skin is smooth – as though she'd never had to worry about anything. Miss. Gray was one of the best art teacher's I'd ever had. She always pushed us to experiment with as many different mediums as possible and her enthusiasm spread like a blessing of a plague.

She walks between the rows of students and gives out large cuboids of clay to each of us.

"Today," she announces, " we will be working with Earthenware Clay" She picks up her own block, puts it on her demonstration table and starts to work it.

"Now, take the clay where ever you want it to go. Last year people made a lot of vases, plates and even some teapots," her eyebrows hitch up as if in challenge. We'd hardly worked with clay before and now teapots? "We'll only be working with one clay in class but I'm setting this as a two-week homework project where you'll need to experiment with as many different types as you can get your hands on."

There were a few half-hearted groans at the mention of homework from the back row but they quickly faded as Miss. Gray set us off on our task. She quickly demonstrated some basic shaping techniques and then left us on our own.

Many people started gathering tools and pots of water and then dividing their clay – some already started sculpting. I got my sketchbook out of my bag and started to sketch ideas of my end product. I couldn't do a teapot, that would be very unoriginal, a vase could work? Maybe, something slightly weird and asymmetric? Or a plant pot? Or a mug? It couldn't be too intricate; I have an artist's fingers but I don't have a potter's hands.

Simon, I notice, is sat looking at his clay rather forlornly. Every thirty seconds or so, he'll pick it up and rotate it, then put it back down.

"Si, why are you looking at that like it's just flunked math and you're not upset just very disappointed?" My words seem to break him out of his trance but he just keeps looking at his clay. His frown deepens.

"Cartoons I can just about do, but pottery? I mean, what the hell can I possibly do with clay?". He's genuinely upset.

"Well…," I start looking for the right words of consolation, "why don't you write a list of any ideas and then choose your favourite?"

Apparently all Simon needed was a little rational thought because as soon as my words sunk in he turned to me, smile restored, and said:

"You're kind of the best you know"

"I know" I say, putting my hand on my heart to humour him.

I very much do not know.

Its near to the end of second period when I come to a final decision. Choosing a separate piece of a3 paper, I push my sketch book to one side and start on my final 'idea board' (as Miss. Gray likes to call them). My pencil runs smoothly across the paper and I can feel myself go into 'creative-overdrive' mode.

My hand is in the air and then I'm quizzing Miss. Gray on all the different types of purchasable clay, which she would recommend for someone so inexperienced and what temperature kilns she will have access to. She answers all my questions, even noting down a few of her most reliable art stores and clay types, before dashing off to collect something from the front office.

The classroom then seems to slow down and speed up at the same time, as it does before every little catastrophe. There's a slight stumble of a figure in my peripheral vision, a muttered "shit" and suddenly there's water all over the table and my upper thigh. Still processing the sensory shock I make a fumbling grab for my sketchbook. Its dry. Thank every angel in all of the heavenly divine. My sketch, however, is one hundred percent submerged.

"What the hell did you do that for?" A loud voice bellows from beside me. I flinch before I even realise its just Simon. He's standing, glaring, rather aggressively, at none other than Alec Lightwood. The Lightwood's eyes are wide as if still not quite aware of what just happened. He opens his mouth like a goldfish – expecting words to come out – then closes it again. Then, almost out of nowhere, a familiar figure appears, defensively, in front of him.

"He obviously didn't mean to. Calm down." Jace growls. Surprisingly, he's almost disproportionally quiet compared to Simon's outburst.

This could be bad. Jace and Simon have never gotten along. They've had a series of verbal headbutts over the years. I assume it's something to do with the aforementioned different 'styles' of popularity and people they represent. So it's not surprising when Simon doesn't 'calm down'.

"Calm down? What do you mean? Her work is completely soaked!"

"Si, It doesn't matter." I whisper.

"It does matter." He turns to face me, red-cheeked with rage and eyes wide with disbelief at my apathy. Simon hardly ever gets angry at anyone. I guess Jace Herondale doesn't fit into that bracket.

It's Jace he's angry at, right? Not me? I feel like I'm shrinking. Clary is not in Wonderland.

"Look, if she says it doesn't matter: it doesn't matter," Jace continues to stare Simon down, his voice louder now. My peripheral vision catches his hands ball into fists. Have they always been this tall?

"It does matter." Simon says quietly. He's still looking at me, a little more forlornly now. My eyes are on the table.

Jace takes a step towards him, fists clenched, but he doesn't seem to notice. Countdown to disaster . . . 5 . . . 4 . . . . I want to do something, say something but I can't . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . . Luckily, I don't have to.

"Jace, just leave it. It was my fault," Alec puts his hand on Jace's shoulder, breaking him out of some sort of trance. Blue and golden eyes look at me then and I force myself to meet them, "I'm really sorry Clary." Disaster averted.

There's a sense of finality in his tone which cuts all of the tension out of the air. They go.

Simon sits back down after a dirty look towards the back of the classroom. He helps me mop up the water on the desk in silence and then continues not to speak to me for the rest of the lesson. Miss. Gray returns, paperwork in hand, and re-briefs us on the homework project – completely unaware of the narrowly missed calamity.

I'm very conscious that the whole room witnessed that whole event. I properly spaced out or freaked out or something out, didn't I? And Simon's face . . . oh no. First the orange juice and now this? The reeling fear is back, it's sucking all the moisture out of my throat and I can't swallow. I can't look at him, never mind explain what the hell just happened.

I'm pretty sure there's ketchup all over my face again which is why, when the bell rings, for once I'm in a rush to leave the art classroom.

Well, I at least hope you enjoyed that or even liked it remotely. Next chapter coming soon! Meanwhile, the water isn't getting much shallower for Clary . . .

**Let me know what you think! :D**


	3. Simon uses Bing

**Hello again, sorry for late chapter this 'life' thing keeps getting in the way. Thanks to everyone that has reviewed! It's selfish but it really makes me want to keep writing so thanks JLing, Skybell1272, 1021 and all guest reviewees ahahaha. **

**Anyway, here goes ...**

After that rather too-eventful morning, I manage to calm myself down in study period. My breaths become deeper and more even and it all gets closer to 'okay' again.

I see Simon again in 'Algebra II'. We sit next to each other but keep our heads buried in our books. The classroom is blue. The harsh hues of cold autumnal air that filter through windows lines with condensation. He doesn't crack any jokes like usual and it makes me think. It was just a sketched design, wasn't it? Why did he have to react like that? I've never seen Simon angry before, at least not like that. I think if it didn't all happen so suddenly I would've handled it okay, still not good but okay.

Oh who am I kidding? The word 'okay' means nothing. It's just a synonym for 'fine':

'How are you?'

' I'm fine, thanks ' or ' I'm okay, thanks '

They both mean nothing, each interaction like that means nothing. There's no point asking that question it's pointless small-talk. I would wager a large sum of money that I don't have that you've never heard anyone reply to the question with any sentence that doesn't include either "okay" or "fine". I stop writing and sit up.

I wouldn't have handled it okay. It would've been just a slightly different telling of the same pitiful calamity.

The classroom has it's windows open and even though I'm on the opposite side the breeze is starting to raise goose-bumps on my skin. I blow a hair out of my face and Simon looks up from his work and glances up at me. I offer a small smile to show him that I'm okay but as soon as he sees it, he shakes his head and goes back to his book. I don't understand.

Our teacher sets homework, the bell rings, the class gets up in unison and joins the tidal wave of a high school corridor. It's a suffocating procession really. Sometimes, when it gets really busy – the kind of busy where you can't move at all unless the person in front moves but they can't move until the person in front of them moves, etc... – I feel as though I might be swept under the surface. The oxygen would leave my lungs, I wouldn't be able to get up and I'd be trampled under footfall after footfall of other students, as though I had melted into the sand of a horse's show jumping arena and hooves were coming down thick and fast.

Right now, however, it just reeks of stressed-worn-out bodies. Last-period-fear starts to broil my stomach. I choke it down.

Crap! As if this day could get any worse; I've forgotten my English homework in my locker which is the other side of school. I'll be late for English unless I power walk for the entire four-minute-trek. I turn against the corridor current.

At one point I have to manoeuvre through a barricade of football players. That's the most time consuming period of my journey – mainly because each of their footfalls were like earth-bound falling icicles with malicious intent. My 5ft self was in severe danger and ended up having to duck under their log-like arms in order to escape. I'm aware my thumb and forefinger are rubbing together quite painfully, in rhythm with my thumping stride, but I can't remember ever practicing the movement.

Finally, I get to my locker, rifle through it to find the crumpled essay and then slam it shut again. I end up arriving to Mrs. Crippis' classroom breathless and just after registration. All she says when she sees me hovering is

"Late.".

She turns back to her desk and, breathing a sigh of relief, adjust my bag on my back and brave the entire class's eyes to jerkily walk to my seat. But when I get to it, there's already someone sitting there. Most eyes aren't on me now so there's no way that when I feverishly turn to Mrs. Crippis and see her back is facing me, I'm going to ask her loudly what's going on in order to gain her attention. Then all the swarm of beady beetle eyes would be back on me.

As has become habit, I look for Simon but before I see him, he sees me.

"New seating plan," he whispers, fully aware of the stiffening tension in my shoulders,

"You're next to Jordan."

I make my way across the classroom and finally fall into my plastic chair of solace next to the said fairly nondescript boy. The zip on my bag makes an uncomfortable amount of but that doesn't stop me from dropping my book onto the table with a great 'thunk'.

Instead of making him climb any stairs, God should carry that boy to heaven. Confrontation is not my favourite thing (for obvious reasons) but if he stays angry at me for an extended period of time I'm going to have to talk to him about it. Even thinking about that makes me think about how easy it would be to break the pencil between my fingers. It's got to be done though, talking to Simon I mean, not the pencil thing. If it's not done then he could very easily drift into one of the different social circles he's been hovering on the outside of for years now. I doubt I could break the pencil anyway.

It hits me then, as Mrs. Crippis reveals she'll take our homework in next lesson, that I am much more dependent on Simon than he is on me. That's a fear instilling prospect.

I spider-diagram the theme of jealousy in Othello in the silent classroom, taking extra care with making my notes neat to give myself some sort of satisfaction. After this day the mundane task is much appreciated. The paper is smooth beneath my pen until Jordan knocks me accidentally with his leg under the table and my pen slides across my page.

"Sorry." He mumbles, shuffling his chair further away from me.

Its inexplicable but looking at the inky black biro line across the smooth white I have to press my tongue against the top of my mouth to stop tears welling-up. Then a laugh, so melodic it wouldn't be out of place in an orchestra, rings out across the classroom. Mrs. Crippis looks up, over her thin rectangular glasses. Isabelle Lightwood has to -rather surprisingly ungracefully – mash her hand over her mouth in order to stifle her residing giggles. Then, belatedly, I realise she's sat next to a goofily grinning Simon. He pushes his glasses up his nose. I feel like a spectator on the situation as the class reverts to silence. Even his eyes are smiling, singing of boyish pride at making Isabelle Lightwood herself laugh and the slight apprehension one might have of an animal that you're not sure whether to stroke or be scared of.

He's never admitted it to me but he's had an intermittent, let's say, curiosty regarding the Lightwood for a couple of years now. But, somehow due to social circles, she's apparently 'unapproachable'. I don't understand most of this social stuff and don't get me wrong its not for lack of trying. Id like to be that girl who knows where everyone stands with each other 24/7 and be constantly up to date with all the unwritten rules of American highschool but, alas, it's a skill I very much lack.

Nevertheless, the scene eases some of the last period fear acid bubbling up my oesophagus and I'm happy for my friend. The final bell rings soon after I finish my - at this point scrawled – diagram and I get up to go. To my relief, Simon catches me on my way out (his teeth still visible from ear to ear) and we walk home as if this morning was only a shared hallucination.

"Where do you even buy clay from, though?" He asks with a sort of amused grunt.

"A craft store Simon, I'm sure there's plenty around." I joke with a type of exasperated sarcasm, but it makes me think. To buy clay for my art project I need two things: to be able to get out of the house and money.

"Hey, Si, how much do you think clay costs?"

"Oh, uh, I don't know. Let me Bing it."

"Bing? Do you use Bing Simon Lewis?"

"No, of course not. Its just that the phrase 'google it' is exhaustedly overused, that's all" He fumbles but his cheeks turn a pink they weren't a minute ago in the cold October air.

"Ah," I reply, "Of course."

" Well, google says clay can be decently inexpensive, depending on what type your ladyship wishes to purchase but for basic clay – the crappy stuff we had in eight grade – its about $1 a kilo."

Okay that's not bad. It still doesn't avoid the fact that I will need to buy something with money I don't have. Money I'll have to ask for. But, it's not bad.

We continue talking about the best menial stuff there is to talk about until he takes his left turn and waves goodbye over his shoulder. For a moment his head rests at the exact angle I painted last night.

The cold air almost immediately hit the back of my neck after I turned my gaze away from his retreating figure. My strides become smaller as I get nearer and nearer to the house. The gates mechanically 'whir' open when I press the button. They're at least two times my height, painted black, steel spikes decorate each column. I tilt my head to look at them moving, pausing in the middle of the drive. I look back down and continue walking.

I hang my bag up. I place my shoes against the wall. I check for muddy prints. I make dinner and, as has come a morbid habit, I feel the tick of the stove-lighting-spark in my fingertips, the blue of the gas flame burning behind my eyes and almost hope for an plausible accident to throw the building into a heavenly inferno. I put the pasta on.

Valentine returns at 5 o'clock. I stand to greet him as always. He seems somewhat happy, amiable, perhaps not as shockingly happy as yesterday but still, its enough to doubt his amiability tomorrow. And that is why I ask him for money. He becomes angry to begin with: furrowing his brow, looking through my eyes but then I explain about the art project and how it is only a few dollars, just to buy some clay.

"You'll bleed me bone dry soon, Clarissa," I don't mention this is the first time I have asked for money.

He sits down at the table in front of the display I had set out. I bite my lip. And then, a small miracle: he reaches for his wallet. He throws twenty dollars at me and starts eating. I have to catch it to prevent my pasta having an unexpected visitor. I cradle the note in my hands and look at it, the green emblem, and feel it, the weathered paper, and –

"Clarissa the least you can do to repay me is listen to me when I'm speaking,"

"Yes, sorry father." He rests his head in his hands for a moment before continuing.

"As I was saying: do most of your classmates pay for themselves?" I'm unsure of his question.

"Um, I . . . sorry?"

"Do they have jobs Clarissa?" Oh. Oh that's new. A job, independence. I clear my throat.

"Well, I suppose that the majority do, yes." He looks then, down at his empty bowl, eyebrows once again furrowed. After a moment of silence he speaks, mouth curled as though his words sting his mouth:

"Then it's pertinent you get one. We can't have you standing out, can we?"

There's nothing to say. This is it. I feel like crying.

"I'm at a meeting tomorrow evening so search for one then. It cant be more than a mile away, try the high street first," the highstreet is the street I walk back from school on. Its lined with shops, there's almost too many, there must be a job somewhere. He gets up, puts his bowl in the sink and starts to retreat to his study when he turns to me, eyes darkened. My hair stands on end.

"It must be a respectable job, you must not be anything but respectable." He shuts the door and leaves me in deafening euphoria.

There's a baker's and two café's, one small restaurant. I could eb a waitress, wearing a ponytail: all 'What can I get for you today?' and serving smiling family after family. I could learn to bake or make pastries, I've cooked everyday for years- that would all help me. I wouldn't even have to make the pastries I could just sell them. Maybe there'd be other nice people working there and at closing time, instead of throwing anything out we'd just have a feast.

I eat my pasta leisurely, then skip up the stairs to my room and finish all my homework in record time.

The next afternoon, I ask Simon if he'll come with me. He says yes. So after school we walk our normal route except we stop outside the bakery. It has big, spotless windows that display glistening desserts and glazed breads. In big green letters across the top it reads ' Fleur's Patisserie'.

"Are you going in?" Simon ask jokingly. We've been stood outside for five minutes. I look up at him despairingly.

"I don't know what to say, how do I do it?"

"Ask for a job?" I nod, "Well, just walk up to the counter, say 'Hi, my name's Clary. I was just wondering if you have any jobs available?'"

That doesn't sound so bad. His brown eyes find mine, searching for my response in my face. I can feel my heart beat.

"What if they say no?" I say quietly.

"Well then we'll go to the next place on your list."

"And what if they say yes?"

"Then ask what it is and if you want to take it, ask how to apply."

I open the glass door and walk up to the counter, Simon lingering in the croissant section.

I clear my throat. A lady, late forties, appears out from a back room. She has thinning blonde hair and weathered, reddened skin.

"How can I help you?"

"Hi, um, my name Clary and I just wanted to know if you had any jobs available?" my voice is strained like a thread stretched tight across a cheese grater.

"KEIRA," She bellows to the back room. 'Keira' comes out, flour all over her hands and forearms and apron, hair bulging out of a blue net. "Do you know if we have any jobs available?" Keira turns her mouth into an apologetic frown,

"Not that I know of, sorry." They both turn back to look at me, expectant more than apologetic.

"Ah okay, thank you for your time." I, very stiffly, march out the door – forcing Simon to hurry to keep up.

"So where to next?" I ask abruptly. We've got to get a 'yes'.

"What about Taki's?" Simon asks, reading from the scribbled list of every place we could think of devised during lunch. So that's where we go. It's a little diner, that serves almost all hours of the day. The walls are covered in red paint and slightly torn posters that date two decades ago. There's only about twenty seats and not even half of them are full. I guess waitressing here would include a lot of waiting.

We walk up to the counter but there's no-one there. They don't have a bell so after a few minutes Simon resorts to clearing his throat comically loud. It earns us a few judgemental stares from the guy on the table next to us who's trying to respond to what I assume are boringly important emails. Simon doesn't care and I have to bring my sleeve in front of my face to try to physically contain myself.

Just when we were thinking about giving up a most unexpected guest walks out. It's Kaelie Whitewillow, a girl from a few of my classes. She's almost Simon's height, ninety-percent leg with piercing eyes of icy blue. So it's pretty much a given that she is popular – the 'disgusted-at-the-possibility-of-being-seen-near-me-, even in this context,-popular' (not 'Simon-popular').She looks me over with tight eyes but she doesn't look at Simon. I get the sense that he's allowed to be there.

I ask about a job as politely as I can. My voice squeakily strained for a slightly different reason now. Then, just as I thought this whole encounter couldn't get any worse, Aline Penhallow walks out from the back room carrying a small tray of food. Her dark bob bounces as she walks, as sleek and polished as ever. She has skin that screams of youth somehow and as I have a spot on my chin and haven't applied moisturiser in days, I feel that it's becoming much more enticing to try to climb in and curl up in one of my size 5 shoes.

For some reason I've always irrationally thought the best of Aline, without much reason. Luckily, she's too focused on the balance of the coffee on her tray to even bat a perfectly mascara-ed eyelash in my direction. At this point I'm selfishly hoping to be turned down.

Some angel must hear me because after a moments deliberation on Kaelie's part and without questioning any of her senior staff (her name tag only reads 'Waitress') she just says:

"No we don't, sorry," then with an airyness to her voice continues loftily, "Is there anything else I can get for you?" It's only as we shake our heads and turn to go I notice the ketchup stain on her apron and that she has some slight accent that I can't pin down.

Simon starts to chuckle as soon as we are out of hearing range.

"What?" I say, his laughter infecting me.

"Oh nothing," he breathes deeply in an attempt to sober himself, "I just, well, that was so comically uncomfortable,"

I open my mouth to apologise for making the whole short interaction so weird but before I can he continues:

"Did you notice the guy on the table to our side?" I shake my head, I wasn't exactly focused on him, "He was eating some sort of sandwich and just by chance, I was looking in his direction and I saw an entire piece of bacon fall out of his mouth. He saw that I saw then he started coughing and I had to stop myself from laughing. It was the highlight of my day."

"An entire piece?" I raise my eyebrows.

"An entire piece."

The two café's we go to next follow in the same vein. Although one does offer me a cleaning job that I almost take before Simon shakes his head slightly in my peripheral vision and I get the message. Arguably, they said it was mostly just cleaning windows. Then we check off some of the other places on the list, some are closed, some have big burly men behind the counter and we just leave before even asking.

I'm tired now and most places are closing so I consider myself defeated. Valentine doesn't understand circumstance induced failure, there is only failure. We walk slowly back along a side street as twilight draws ever nearer. It's getting colder too, my two layers seem to have gotten much thinner since this morning when I put them on.

Then in the darkening limelight it appears. An angel in the form of a rundown second hand bookshop. It's royal blue paint on the outside is peeling and I can barely read the name written on the top 'Garroway Books Co.'. From the window I can see into the store, it's dingy and badly lit and even some of the books in the window aren't in the best condition. There's a man behind the counter as well, but he's sat on a small stool that doesn't quite fit the height of the wooden desk and typing on an almost archaic computer. He doesn't seem to be expecting any customers.

"… and then Darth Vader is all like 'Luke I am your father', which is obvious really because 'Vader' means fath-"

"Si, what about here?"

"What about here?"

"The bookshop doofus, what about the bookshop?" He peers through the window briefly before turning back around to me,

"There's no harm in trying, right?" I nod my head. I'm aware of the breath in my lungs. We walk through the door and a quaint little bell goes off that makes me smile in surprise. The counter is almost immediately across form the door and perhaps that is why I feel that as soon as the man at the counter sees us entering, he seems to look right at me. His eyes widen for a split second, he really must not have a lot of customers, huh. As we come up to the counter he schools his expression and clears his throat. I open my mouth to come out with the usual spiel but he cuts me off:

"Hello," he says and I get the feeling the word means more to him than it does to me, "are you looking for any book in particular?"

**I wonder why dun dun duhhhh. Even re-reading this capter im not too sure what happens in it so sorry for the bit of a filler but hopefully a slow moving story is better than a too fast one ? hopefully? **

**This is the curtain call of The Calm and The Storm Chapter Three x **


	4. Dog-Eared and Dusty

**Hi, again. Hopefully this chapter is a little more exciting than the last few. There's actual human interaction! Thanks to reviewers!**

**This Is a Love Story.**

Chapter Four: Dog-Eared and Dusty

The flat of my hand presses flat upon the blue peeling paint of 'Garroway Books Co.'s door. It clicks open and my arrival is announced with the dainty bell as the door corner shakes it. Light barely filters through the store's windows but now, instead of thinking it looked dingy, I think it makes it look atmospheric – the perfect little second hand bookshop, old, tattered and looks as though it should be lit by candles. Well, almost perfect the paint needs a bit of work. Maybe, after a little while, I could ask Luke if he'd allow me to paint it one day.

Luke Garroway. That's his name, my new boss. His name is Luke Garroway and apparently he set this bookstore up with his sister but she moved away a little while ago and he's been permanently understaffed ever since. It's my 'trial' shift today, I leave the house on Saturdays at 10:40am and get home at 5:10pm. Valentine is expectedly strict with how long I'm allowed to spend getting there and back but I think, overall, he's being really good about it. He interrogated me about it for a while after he got home from his business meeting that first night. I told him everything, well a sugar-coated version of everything. I didn't tell him all the details, for example I told him the exact address as he asked but never gave him the name, I told him it was a book shop but not that it was second-hand, I told him it was run by a pair of siblings but not that one had left a few years ago and it had needed a new coat of paint 'T minus two years' ago. He'd responded only by pursing his lips, nodding his head or the occasional grimace.

My sneakers tread very softly on the worn carpet. After a few moments Luke comes out from the back room. He sighs and brushes his raggedly shoulder length hair out of his face to reveal the purple eyebags painted like bruises on his face. His hair falls back in front of his face. Pretty awkwardly he shows me around, how to work the cash machine is the hardest thing to remember but I think I've just about got it. We walk through the shelves and he describes his shelf organisation pattern and I see that in a back corner he has about three cardboard boxes of books.

"I haven't quite got around to sorting them out yet," he says almost nonchalantly, pointing at the boxes, as if they were delivered last week. There's a layer of dust coating them.

He leads me to the backroom, without any other comment. He doesn't seem the type for small talk. He pushes his hair back (in vain) again as we enter the room and I have to silence a small gasp. The room seems to be drowning in papers and books, each stacks from floor to ceiling – it makes me feel even smaller than I already am which is quite a feat.

As I stand looking up at the mile high columns that seem to stretch further and further away as though I've suddenly stepped into Alice's Wonderland, Luke shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

"Ah, yes, well this is…," he raises his arm to push hair out of his face that isn't even there, " … a work in progress."

"No, it's … it's fine," It's a claustrophobic mess, "It's great. It's good." Apparently this was a worrying answer as then Luke started talking twice as fast – it was almost comical.

"Of course, you won't have to do anything with any of this. You'll just be manning the register and helping customers if they ever ask for it," Then after a moments reconsideration, "If, of course, you take the job."

" I'll take it." I say quietly but he continues in what I could only describe as an anxiety induced rant.

"Which would be very helpful but only if- you'll take it?" This man is about the same age as my father, perhaps a few years older with the greying hair, broad shoulders that stand above my head and calloused hands that look like they haven't rested in 20 years and I realise I could look at his tired eyes and say, wholly and truthfully, that I am not scared. But it's the moment of realisation that I didn't even think of being scared that makes me repeat myself.

"Yeah, I'll take it."

He spends five minutes teaching me how to use the cash register and then retreats into the back room hesitantly, as though he hasn't left the front of the shop unattended in so long he's forgotten how to do it. Surely he must've had other employees since his sister left?

I tap my finger nails on the desk the tapping noise the only noise in the shop, apart from the occasional shuffle of papers from behind me. The street was still roaring outside though and for once I was thankful, the suffocating city saving me from deafening silence.

I manage to stay sat in the chair for ten whole minutes before I stand up and walk around the aisles. I can't say I'm a big reader (frankly it's not something on the top of my worry-list), so I'm not sure why my feet took me through the door a few days ago. There's something about them though, the worn away spines and the smell that is almost sickening that makes me feel as though I know nothing.

I reach my arms out, fingertips easily brushing each row of books and I let them drag along the spines. Only when I start to cough up my lungs do I stop – fingers covered in ashy grey dust.

Doubled over, hands on knees, trying not to spit on the floor is exactly my position when the doorbell rings and Isabelle Lightwood walks through the door. I straighten up so quickly I have to close my eyes for a second to clear the dizziness in my head.

Luke pokes his head around the door which I assume is an unavoidable instinct. I give him a small smile that he returns and disappears again.

The Lightwood is looking at the rows of books exactly like I do, as if she has no idea what she's doing here. So, naturally, I've got to offer my non-existent help.

"Hi," I start (my voice not coming out squeaky at all, why do you ask?), "Are you looking for anything in particular? "

She snaps her neck to look at me so fast I think, maybe, just maybe, Simon could've been right about the whole 'robot-thing'.

"Yeah, actually, I am," she strolls over to me, black patent boots tapping ever closer, "Do you know where I could find…," she pulls out a scrawled list from her denim jacket pocket, "Far From The Madding Crowd, My Cousin Rachel and Death of a Salesman."

"Uh, do you have the authors' names? Sorry, that's just how the shelves are organised."

"Oh yeah, of course," And I point out each book as she tells me. There's at least a couple of copies of each and I notice she chooses the oldest, most torn-up versions she can see.

"Hey, I know you, right?" she turns to me with the small stack of books cradled under one arm.

"Yeah, um, you're in my English," And history but let's not mention that, " With Ms. Crippis?"

She chuckles.

"You know one time Jace and Sebastian cut her computer's power halfway through a lesson and she cried," she rolls her eyes, her small smile falling from her face as though realising for the first time that making a teacher cry, even Ms. Crippis, wasn't really that funny.

I stay silent. Afterall, there's not much to say. She clears her throat, easy going smile once again on her face.

"You know, these books are actually for Jace."

"He can read?" I say before I even notice my mouth moving. My eyes widen.

"Simon told me you were funny," smile widening "he isn't all that bad, you know, Jace." I clear my throat, unsure of how to respond. Simon is going to go absolutely mental when I tell him she said his name.

"Um, yeah, of course" I manage to get out, fumbling only a little bit. This makes her laugh again. Jesus Christ her smile looks like it's out of some sort of Colgate advert.

"Apart from the fact he's a massive literature snob, but that's a pretty uncurable disease." She gestures towards the books neither her nor me have ever heard of before.

Then I have a moment of realisation that this is Isabelle Lightwood and she's probably just waiting for me to sell her books so she can go. I walk over to the cash register and she puts the books down in front of me. Thankfully, I remember what I'm doing – calling Luke for help would be pretty darn embarrassing right now.

"That's a total of seven dollars."

"Thanks for the help . . ."

"Clary. Clary Morgenstern."

"Thanks for help Clary." She says, sweeps the books off the table and turns and walks to the door. Did I just have a non-egotistical conversation with a Lightwood? It seems so. I should probably get back to sorting out those boxes sitting in the corner now.

"Clary?" It's Isabelle, standing in the door.

"Yeah?"

"I'm having a party next Friday, Simon said you might be busy but I'm inviting pretty much everyone so do you think you could make it?" The casualness of her voice is the very thing that makes me deflate.

"Um, I'll have to check," that sounds better than an outright no, "but thanks for the offer."

She nods once and lets the door swing shut.

I might have to take Simon to the hospital to tell him about this. A cardiac arrest is no medical joke, even when it's caused by a girl just saying his name. Twice.

And then inviting me to a party? Little me at a big, scary Lightwood party? I won't be able to go. But what did she say? She's 'inviting pretty much everyone'? So, perhaps if I argue it as though it would be weird for me not to go . . . I can't have a doctors appointment for four hours, can I? Nope, but, your grandparents can come over.

Whatever, I guess. Still it's fun to think about.

An elderly couple walk into the shop. I help them.

If I went this party, knowing myself all too well, I'd fall on my face in front of the footballers. Or worse, the Cheer team.

The elderly lady somehow finds out I've never read 'The Great Gatsby' before. She insists it's a 'must-read' for all appreciators of literature and sets a copy upon my desk.

Imagine what would happen if someone spiked my drink, I couldn't go home drunk to Valentine. Do people even spike drinks at parties or is that a myth?

I almost put the book back on the shelf before I realise that would be undeniably rude. I leave it on the counter, it's a small book, perhaps a good place to start. I've got to start reading if I'm going to work in a bookshop.

I wouldn't wear a dress, that's completely out of the question. But, maybe my nice jeans with the dark green top? And a warm fleece jacket? But not my red one, then I'd look like a Christmas tree and it's a little bit early for that.

A few hours of unstacking the boxes later, a middle-aged man with a scruff a beard walks in, little child latched on to his hand a pink mitten. Her eyes are so big. She has a matching pink hat on that's supposed to look like some sort of owl and a grey, sheepskin-looking coat peppered daisies. Both their noses are flushed pink with cold.

They walk over to the other side of the shop before I can ask if they want help. Mittened hand still clasped onto calloused one. I try to finish unpacking the third box but I can't help but watch them out of the corner of my eye. He picks her up in his arms stretching her as far to the ceiling as possible. She giggles.

Then his arms give way and I lose my breath. He's going to drop her. She shrieks. The breath caught in my lungs expands for a split second and I think I'm going to burst. The roaring inferno consumes me.

Until, of course, he doesn't drop her. He just straightens his arms to break her fall and then scoops her up again into his arms.

She giggles and it makes my mouth dry.

They browse and then leave.

The rest of my shift is quiet. I finish unpacking the three boxes after a little while and then return to my swivel chair at the desk and let myself retreat into my head. If Izzy had already asked Simon, maybe they were closer than I thought. Perhaps the new seating plan in English was working out better than I thought it was. Damn, I'm going to have to stop teasing him about her if he actually puffs his chest and makes a move. I have a sneaking suspicion he's always been a tiny bit scared of what Alec and Jace would say.

Talking of Jace, I feel as though I've just skipped over the fact he reads classic, second hand and extraordinarily dog-eared books – and an expanse of them at that, is rather outside the box I'd subconsciously drawn for him. So, books? That's fair enough I guess, he's a clever guy, but the ones in the worst condition, what's with that? It didn't seem like Isabelle was doing it out of spite, I got the impression she was looking for a nice present. So why the love of books that reek of dust? I've got no idea. None. And that torturous ignorance is the reason I pick the old copy of 'The Great Gatsby' back up from the desk and pay for it myself.

One thing I know is that Simon can't be trusted to dress himself for this party. Usually, he's completely fine but there was the one time he wore a 'pikachu' t-shirt inside out because he joked that the bright colour might catch a certain person's attention. The way I describe it, it makes Simon look like he has an unhealthy obsession. I swear it's not. It's just as though he's always been aware of her (robot theory or no robot theory).

And anyway, it turns out his yellow shirt was really to support his team in debate club. What a dork.

**And there we are! Little Clary at big, scary Lightwood Party? Has there ever been a more original writer? & Simon is on the up and Valentine hasn't been big or bad yet?**

**I'm not too sure about the dialogue-description ratio but here we are. **

**This is the curtain call of Chapter Four, TCATS.**


	5. Just a Highlighter

**Hi again, so Harry Styles' new album? Yeah, that's all i have to say.**

I finished The Great Gatsby that same Saturday night. I cried, then thought about mum again, sobered up, found myself googling F. Scott Fitzgerald and then cried again. Putting the book down late that night left my ribcage empty.

I got very little sleep that night.

And the pages, now, weren't just old but worn and read. My two-dimensional mental depiction of Jace Herondale lies in those pages. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust etc… But what's more is I, however momentarily, lost myself in Gatsby. It almost scared me to look over at my clock and see it was half past one.

The next morning I woke up with puffy eyes and a desire to get to Monday as soon as possible for two reasons. One because if I was very quick I could run to the bookstore and snag a few books before running home again. And, most importantly, to talk to Simon about Isabelle Lightwood. That should be fun.

Monday came and I did just that. Simon, as expected, was elated when I told him I'd talked about him with the Lightwood on our walk up the school's steps.

"And did you bring me up? Did she bring me up? What exactly happened?" I couldn't help myself from smiling at his puppy dog antics.

"She brought you up, as if you were good friends." I look at him out of the corner of my eye, hoping to catch some sort of subconscious reaction that might tell me they knew each other better than a few English lessons but instead I come to the conclusion that his brain is barely functioning. His mouth opens and closes a few times and I think it's time to approach the all important topic.

"So what are you thinking of wearing?"

"What?" He says, broken out of his haze.

"To the party this Friday?"

"Oh, yeah, that," He says looking over at me with a slight guilty frown. "Well, I hadn't really thought about it. Are you…, do you think you'd be allowed to go?"

"I don't think I can make Friday, Si." That's the answer he was expecting. A moment passes.

"Well, I was just thinking black jeans and black t-shirt" He says swiftly changing the subject. I snort beside myself.

"And by black t-shirt you mean your Star Wars shirt, right?" My eyes shine as I poke fun at him. Cracking a face-breaking grin he replies.

"Maybe."

Some considerable time and two hellish history lessons later the final bell rings. Oh and if you're wondering, yes Isabelle did give me a small smile that I returned a little awkwardly as I took my history seat. I practically run to meet Simon out the front of school and end up having to anxiously tap my foot for a good few minutes before I see him leaving the building. Then I explain my plan to him and we set off at a brisk walk to Garroway Books.

I just want a few books. Maybe two actually. Just till Saturday when maybe I could talk to Luke about borrowing books instead of buying them. I don't know if he'd agree but I could say it would be for the job – which in a way it was. I didn't even know what titles I wanted.

When we finally arrived my breath came out of my mouth in little white puffs and my heart wanted to turn around, go back to the main street and go home. Simon lead me through the peeling blue door at the pace I would call a subdued power walk. The chime of the door bell caused Luke's head to tilt upwards from his computer. He looked as though he was going to say hello before Simon (oblivious) cut him off by dragging me over to between two bookcases. I gave Luke a tight smile which, in return, received a curt nod. It was a comfortable interaction.

Then, in a well-oiled silence, me and Si rush through the bookcases picking out any classics we've heard of and have an enticing blurb. If Luke notices how fast we're running around his shop he doesn't say anything. It's a quiet shop, I realise as I acknowledge I can hear my own breath in my ears, an unusual thing for Brooklyn. We accumulate way too many books in the end – it seems Simon just collected an entire shelf. In the back corner, so Luke doesn't get agitated and fire me, we lay them all out on the ground and sort through them. I glance at my watch - I've got plenty of time and yet I still feel an almost debilitating sense of guilt or fear spread through my blood. We're on the brink of a neurologically-induced inferno. So in any effort to speed up the process I say:

"You choose."

Sadly, Simon picks up on the waver in my voice and turns his eyes but not his head to me, then lowers them again after a moment.

"Well…," he trails off, casting his eyes over every title, "The Hobbit is a must . . . then Brave New world is supposed to be good and . . . did you want anymore?"

Very much in a rush at this point I feel the word "No" leave my mouth before I even really hear his question. I take the two books to the desk where Luke does say

"Hello Clary"

"Hi, just these two please and no thanks, I don't need a bag." He looks at me oddly then but I don't quite meet his eyes – instead I frantically rummage around in my pocket for all my change. He taps some keys on the register.

"Just take them, employee privilege." He tightens his face then in what I could only infer is a smile.

"Are you sure? I can always . . ." I don't finish, too caught up in the thought of 'what can I always? = not much'. He's still searching for my eyes and I find myself looking up.

"No, you take them." I smile then.

"Thank you" I say and slide the books off the counter.

Simon is already waiting at the door and he holds it open for me. We walk for a few more minutes before he turns and has to leave my route. The rest of the night follows the routine of a calm day, apart from the agonising minute it takes me to hide the books under my bed and the three hours I spend reading The Hobbit. Instead of finishing the homework I have for my Wednesday history class, which is fine right? I've got loads of time.

I woke up with a saliva stain on my pillow and my day – wait for it – got worse from there. Well, it got worse gradually. I was behind schedule again but I still managed to walk and not have to get the bus, then I got my chemistry mark back (94%) so that was a plus, History was an ordeal to say the least but what can I expect and then Jordan wasn't there for English so I sat by the window and got some good quality daydreaming time in. At that point it was (at best) a sub-par day.

It wasn't until I got home that I realised a sub-par day would've been a blessing.

I got home on time. I plated food on time. Valentine arrived on time. And I knew as soon as he walked through the door that I would get one step closer to death tonight.

We sit down at the table and, like nothing but a robot in a skinsuit, I glue my eyes to my pasta. I eat it piece by piece and it tastes grainy and grey. When I finish I raise my eyes in an eerie silence to find Valentine looking dead at me. His stare may as well throw the first hit. He hasn't touched his pasta.

"Father, is something wrong?" My voice shakes. He probably gets some sick kicks out of that. He stands up.

"Why do you never do anything I tell you to do?" He growls.

"I'm sorry, Father." I hopelessly try to calm him down.

"You know," he sighs as though I've put the weight of the world on his shoulders, "I don't think I ask you for too much."

I cook for you. I clean for you. I've given up all hope for an actual life for you. Not too much?

"What would you like me to do?" But he doesn't tell me. He pushes his chair out behind him and stands.

"All you had to do was wipe your feet." He drags out every syllable like some kind of murderous pantomime. Someone else might get a few cheap laughs. He walks around the table.

"Please, what haven't I done?" Somehow I'm still shocked to feel the tears.

"I give you everything, everything Clarissa and you give me nothing."

With a harsh crack the back of his hand connects with my cheek. I lose balance. His fist comes to my hair to stop me falling from the chair.

"Your mother is probably glad she's dead. At least she doesn't have see her attempt at a daughter."

His hand left my hair, strands ripping out on his rings, then coils back before slamming into my shoulder. An easily coverable body part. I groan before I realise I've hit the floor. I can't tell if I'm breathing. My body is numb.

He stands above me as if thinking about his next move. Seeing my half-lidded watching eyes he sends a kick to my stomach. My body is not numb. I curl in on myself in reflex to the pain. My cheek rubs my tears into the varnished floor. He leaves.

I think I'm lucky. I think he hasn't broken my rib. But I can't stand the thought of walking just yet so when I hear his study lock click, I let myself lie there.

The ceiling is so high and I am so short.

After a little while, I use my unaching arm to push myself up from the floor. It's messy and doesn't work first try but I'm able to get up so perhaps that's a positive. My stomach hurts with every step. I walk like a hunchback and thank every god I don't believe in that we have a stair rail. The steps to my bedroom seem really loud no matter how lightly I try to make them.

The next morning, I wake up and hope for a sub-par day. When I systematically poke and prod myself to check the damage, I still don't think my rib is broken but it's probably quite badly bruised. My shoulder too.

The hot water isn't running so it's only cold when I get in the shower. I wash my hair then get out. Drying my hair with a towel makes it go frizzy but I do it anyway, finally plaiting it down my back. All that's visible in the mirror after I've put my usual high-neck, green knitted sweater and stupidly baggy jeans is a vaguely violet bruise on my jaw. It must've come from falling off the chair.

There's not much in my make-up bag but there is concealer which is all I really need right now. The consistency is slimy on my face as I dab it on with my finger, the discolouration fading away. I had tried not to notice the darkening purple pigment on my shoulder or the yellow tinted dark brown bruise on my right ribcage. I brush my teeth.

Valentine's black car has already disappeared from the drive way, as always, by the time I get downstairs. It's another Wednesday, a double art day, so the class is carrying on with the projects we already started. Simon and I had taken a 30 second detour off the main street before school one day and managed to buy all our clay and still get to school for 9am. Okay, maybe it was 9:10.

The walk to school is peaceful, I had woken up early so didn't have to take the bus. Grey clouds covered the morning sun but when I turned my face to the breeze it felt like a true crisp winter's day. You know the kind of cold air that makes your cheeks pink and your ears numb? The one that makes you feel like you can truly breathe? It was a that kind of morning. The cold that makes the air around you feel new.

When I got my head out of the (literal) clouds I was already in my art classroom. There's nothing quite like a little early morning blur of time. Simon got there late – with wet knees?

I opened my mouth to ask but he cut me off:

"Look, I fell over in two separate puddles and I don't want to talk about it." I can't help but crack a little as I turn to the front as Ms. Gray started setting us off on our task.

Half an hour into the lesson and Simon had bits and pieces of drying clay scattered all over his workspace. I'm not sure what he was doing but his brow was really furrowed so I thought it better not to disrupt him. From what I could see, it looked like a sort of abstract take on a molehill.

I was just wetting the second piece of clay I'd been working on when – smack! A flying object hit the back of my head and then clattered to the floor. Instinctively, I turned around. At the back of the classroom looking directly at me was Jace Herondale himself and another boy who I guessed was Sebastian Verlac by the shaggy black hair. Sebastian was whispering something in Jace's ear but as I hesitated, not knowing what to say or do, Jace's eyes stayed on mine the whole time. They were molten eyes. After what seemed like a small infinity, Sebastian pulled away and lounged back in his chair.

"We didn't mean to hit you." Said the Herondale. His voice was flat as his eyes bored into mine. It was weird, I felt like I couldn't look away.

"Oh don't be a dick Seb, say sorry." Came the mediating voice of Isabelle. I tore my eyes away when I saw her sit down next to the dark haired boy and she gave me a small smile. I'd like to think I gave her one back but I think my face was just refusing to show any kind of emotion. Seb raised his eyebrows.

"Well then, I'm very sorry Miss. Morgenstern and I will forever be in your debt." He chuckled as if he was being funny but I didn't feel as though I should laugh, rather that I was being laughed at.

The only thing I could think of to say, before the silence got more awkward, was:

"You're not in this class." At least it was true, Sebastian definitely wasn't in my art class. Simon I then realised hadn't turned around but was very ready to – listening to every word.

"She's got a point Seb, you should probably go." Izzy sighed, as though he was as much a hindrance to her as the entirety of the rest of the high school population.

Sebastian Verlac was the biggest stereotype I have ever met. At least it's plausible to assume that the Lightwood-Herondale clan had something behind their saccharine smiles and weekly-cleaned shoes but the Verlac was pretty much the same douchey-leather-jacket-wearing-dark-jeaned football player from any of the crappy high school movies on late night tv. Him, like Jace up until about a week ago, I have no desire to ever speak to. I couldn't say the same for all of my female peers.

Sebastian raises his hands in mock surrender and pushes his chair back to get up. He then walks out of the classroom, crooked grin upon his face, like he doesn't have a care in the world. That was the main see-able difference between the Herondale and the Verlac, one of them smiled and one of them didn't.

"Can you pass me the highlighter?" Came a voice breaking me out of my reverie. A golden-haired male voice.

I looked once at the highlighter on the floor and then met Jace's eyes.

"No."

And then I turned around. The only response I heard was a little scoff whilst I tried to continue with my work. Simon had a playful smile on his face even though his molehill looked more like something you might not be too thrilled to step in on the side of the road. Once my heart rate had got back to normal, I managed to get through at least a third of my project. It was a successful lesson on the whole.

Only when the bell rang did Simon dare to interrupt me from my sculpting.

"So do you think being fashionabley late is still a thing?" He said clearly dreaming of the party on Friday.

"I'm not sure I'm the right person to ask," I reply, amused by Simon's nervousness. "When does it start?"

"Oh, um, I'm not sure. Let me check," he says getting his phone out of his back pocket. "It says on facebook that it's 8pm-2am, at Blackthorn Hall, Cape road, …" He listed off the whole address but I possibly may have zoned out just a little bit when I realised I knew the exact house.

"That's not too far away from my house," I said before thinking, "So . . . it won't take you too long to get there. If I were you I'd aim for 8:30."

"8:30?" He asked.

"8:30." I replied.

"Okay, 8:30 it is."

It wasn't only Simon that was hung up about this party, it was the entire school by the sounds of it. The corridors were buzzing. Not going to this party was probably a blessing in disguise, if I did go it would just be a short story of embarrassment and awkwardness I'm sure. In fact, I'm 99% certain I would detest it. Simon would hate it too, I'd be stuck following him around all night and that's fun for no one.

So when I sat down at the dinner table, with Valentine opposite, on Friday and he said he was going to be leaving for the weekend for a business trip in a few hours – I was more conflicted than elated.

**Hope that was okay :)) Next chapter should be eventful eek.**


	6. Just Another High School Party

**Hi Everyone! I had to reupload this chapter because of a weird weird formatting error that i never would've noticed without a helpful review! Sorry for the confusion, I am the antithesis of Bill Gates. Anyway heres's the chapter, enjoy ...**

Valentine often did this; tell me he was going away on a short business trip mere hours before he actually left. I guess this unpredictability was supposed to limit the sort of witchcraft I could plan for when he was away. As if I'd dare to step of the house.

After dinner, he retreated to his study for a couple of hours and left me to antagonize. It was less than two hours until Isabelle's party actually started, and god knows if Valentine would actually leave before then. My heart was jumping in my chest just thinking about the possibility of actually going. His closed study door tormented me. If only he would leave now, then I'd be able to run to Simon's house and arrive with him. One creak comes from within the closed door and I dismiss the idea from my head.

I wash the dishes in a sort of trance and have to wash half of them again because they're still dirty. Then I run up the stairs, making the most noise I've heard in this house for a long time. I sit down at my desk in the corner and open my chemistry book, but I just keep re-reading one question over and over again until the word 'the' looks strange. My eyes keep glancing sideways to my wardrobe. The closed wooden doors seem to be looking at me.

Do you think they'll be drinking out of red cups? No, stop it. Don't even think about going to this stupid party. It'll be stupid teenagers getting too drunk, the football team being too loud and a five-foot queue to a pissed-on toilet seat. I turn back to my homework with a decisive huff – successfully clearing any images of amusingly close-to-puking teenagers from my mind. It's only when I hear the distinctive roar of Valentine's black sports car starting up in the driveway and I jumped to my window overlooking the driveway to see the sleek vehicle retreating into the distance, that the Isabelle-Lightwood-invitation fiasco re-entered my head.

It's already eight o'clock. Simon will be on his way by now. My stomach feels acidic. Should I stay or should I go now? Should I stay or should I go?

Maia Roberts would go. She'd do it. So, I get up with a borrowed decisiveness and fling open the doors of my wardrobe. Very little looks out at me. I clench my jaw. There's a red dress of my mother's that I've had in a box since forever but tucking it under my chin and holding it against my body shows that it's clearly way too big for me. She must've been tall. Then there's just school clothes. My wardrobe is a large house with limited occupants. My hands are sticky with sweat as they pull out items of clothing in an anxious frenzy.

I move like I'm playing back a time-lapse, hurrying from the bathroom to my mirror to my pile of clothes and then back to my bathroom. You know that feeling when you know you shouldn't be doing something, so your throat has dropped to your stomach and you're at once, twice as aware of your surroundings and half as aware. Yeah? Well I was feeling that. To the point where my throat was dry, but I knew if I drank, I'd need to go to the toilet at an inconvenient time.

I don't want to wear the dress or that skirt I have had since 8th grade band practice, it still fits but I'd have to wear tights and it's not a secret that tights are the devil's most loved creation. I'll wear the only pair of jeans that attempt to fit me. They're pale blue, edging on white and hug my waist but they were meant for someone curvier than me – the jean legs hang off my petite hips and cover the true outline of my legs. They aren't too long though, which is a first. Tops are where it gets difficult. There's a nice red top that was a gift (I think?) but it's so bright and I'm not sure I want to stand out right now.

Time is ticking away, it's 8:30. If I take any longer fashionably late will turn into late late. It seems to beg the question of whether I have any hope of being fashionable in the first place. I settle for a black strappy vest with an unbuttoned, emerald green, long sleeve shirt over the top. The bruises from the other day have faded enough to be within the vague realm of 'explainable' but I like to keep my back completely covered, just in case there's something I've missed.

In the bathroom mirror, I gently apply mascara to my eyelashes, swiping away excess with my finger. Attempting eyeshadow would undoubtably make me look like a panda-eyed fool, so I skip that step. Instead, just reaching for my lip balm and trying to hide any chapped-ness. I've got nothing major to conceal today (apart from my general complexion resembling more of that of a corpse rather than a young girl, but concealer can't help that) so I skip any of the skin products I own.

Making my shoulders relax I try to envision the girl in the mirror as some sort of pretty, powerful persona but not even someone with the wildest imagination could conjure that image. Instead, I settle for the girl next door and allow myself comfort in my complete lack remarkability. What is it that Valentine said? 'You must not stand-out'?

I shove the spare house key into the toe of my shoe and tie the laces real tight. My phone, I put in my back pocket and hope to god I won't need it. One hears all sorts of horror stories about high school parties when Simon does a gossip run down on Monday mornings. Then I realise the next step is to leave. And so, I do.

And the evening air is so cold it makes me feel alive. I turn back around to look at the front door I just came through, the lock clicking. This is insane.

I can't stop giggling to myself as my feet carry me towards the sound of thunderous bass and screeching teenagers. I must look insane. Glancing up and down, I realise I'm the only one on the street except from the streetlights of course.

My thin shirt whips around me in the November night breeze. So, this is what freedom feels like. I'm grinning now. Maybe I really am insane?

I stop for a second and look up to the stars. There are a few clouds in the sky, the orange streetlights obscuring my view of the crisp night. I wish I could burn this feeling into my bones. Without thinking, I raise my arms around me; I am crucified. I spin 360 with my eyes open like a ballerina. Then, with a skip in my step, I keep walking.

My ecstasy, however, is short lived. When I walk through the open Lightwood gates some of my classmates and faces I don't recognise are loitering around the door. My smile drops. Fuck. It's too late to turn back now. My fingers come up to pinch my bottom lip. I roll my shoulders back and follow my feet to the front door.

I almost raised my hand to knock before I caught myself. My hand reached for the door handle instead and twisted.

Inside the noise was close to deafening. There was a crying girl immediately to my left sat beneath the coat rack, two friends comforting her with drowned out words. At the end of the entryway corridor was a door leading to the kitchen. Through it I could see a group of guys, last season's football jackets adorning their backs. No Simon.

However, to my right was a crowded stairway, two girls weaving their way down with sloshing drinks and clumsy toes. One starts running at me before I even notice it's Isabelle. She grips me in a bone crushing hug but before I can respond, pulls away and Cheshire cat smiles in my face.

"Claryyyy," she loudly slurs with genuine excitement, "You came!"

She turns to the girl beside her, who I think is called Aline Penhallow and is looking me up and down as if she's not quite sure to make of me.

"I told you she'd come!" Izzy squeals. Aline just nods, attention off me as she smiles a little at her friend's drunken antics.

I feel very wooden as Izzy slings her arm around my shoulder and turns to look at the rest of the house as I am. Her wine glass surely cannot just be full of wine. She's wearing a navy blue bodycon dress that hits above mid-thigh and is still somehow classy. She's still managing to walk in heels though, maybe it is just wine.

"Hey Isabelle," I look up at the tall, glorious girl, "Have you seen Simon?"

A look of puzzlement crosses her face for a split second.

"Simon… Simon Lewis?"

"The very same." I reply, surely, she knew we were friends?

"I might've seen him upstairs." She says slowly, before shouting "Let's go!" and pulling me by my wrist through the stairway crowd. Aline disappears somewhere into a different surge of hormonal humans.

I'm sure I step on a few fingers and feet at one point and yell a vague "Sorry!" behind me. Izzy's boldness is getting a bit infectious. A puff of cigarette smoke is accidentally blown in my face causing me to cough, a few people to laugh and my cheeks to redden. She grips my wrist in a vice and pulls me to a room at the end of another crowded corridor, opening a door directly onto Simon.

And when I say directly, I mean directly. It hit him square in the back.

"Ouch, Lightwood" he says, smiling like a fool when he realises who just assaulted him. I can't help but roll my eyes.

She offers a terse smile in return as she looks into his eyes.

"Sorry Lewis, watch yourself next time," Then she turns to me as if to speak but Si cuts her off.

"You know my name?" He says deadly seriously. Izzy can't help but snort at this and shake her head, hiding her smile with a look to the ground.

"I'll see you later." She says to me before closing the door.

"Si, do you have no shame at all?" I ask incredulously. He's still so dumbfounded he doesn't find any words to reply. I shake my head now. What a child.

In the room there's Maia Roberts, one of Simon's friends called Eric and three other people I didn't know but later learnt to be Bat Velasquez, Raphael Santiago and Matt Charlton. It wasn't a very intimidating group of people. Especially, after Simon introduced me to everyone. We all ended up sitting in a circle, chatting about nothing and passing a few blunts around. I even tried one a few times, my throat burned so badly I decided maybe it wasn't for me.

Si didn't make a big thing about my arrival which I was thankful for but every so often I'd catch him giving me a weird look. Each time I'd cast my eyes downwards and avoid his gaze.

"Matt, do you remember that time I filled your mouth with silly string whilst you were asleep?" Eric laughs.

"Don't remind me," Matt replies, cheeks turning beet red, "I almost choked to death on silly string, that's not a very valiant end is it?" The whole group laughs at his discomfort at the tale. I can't help the unstoppable flow of giggles that flows from me as I'm sat at Simon's side. We stay in that circle undisturbed for about an hour before Izzy comes back up, this time alone, and begins to laugh along with us. Her drunk, them stoned and me just happy. Okay maybe a little high. I need to work on my tolerance.

Then we spend another half hour like that. The highlight was Izzy laughing so much she dribbled down her chin and then blushed profusely for ten minutes straight. The whole time Matt, Eric and Raphael looking at her like the first playboy magazine they ever smuggled into their bedroom. I'd like to believe Simon's gaze was a little more gentle. Bat, not particularly bothered about anything but the fairy lights on the ceiling. Maia was in a constant state of eye-rolls and smacking Eric on the back of the head. My cheeks hurt from smiling to the point where I was sure I was burning calories. Izzy offered me her drink a few times (some foul concoction in a wine glass) and I even had a few gulps that burned awfully as they slid down my throat.

It was just after that that Maia stood up, leading to Izzy dragging me up, leading to Simon getting up, leading to Maia disappearing and the three of us weaving our way down the stairs like a very short snake. It was only as I almost tripped over on the last step that I realised Izzy hadn't let go of my hand.

It seemed to be even more crowded in the entrance hall, but I must've got higher than I'd originally thought because I didn't mind the sweaty, out of control bodies all around me. Maybe it was because I was in an Isabelle-Clary-Simon safety sandwich. My senses were completely consumed by the blasting music. I think it was that Camilla Cabello song? The beautiful, beautiful, beautiful angel one? I wasn't even thinking about the fact that I had spent the night talking to a Lightwood. By the looks of her glossy eyes and slightly smudged lipstick I don't think she was thinking about how she had spent her night talking to me either.

And then we were in the kitchen, a shocking quiet rang in my ears for a few seconds. They must've soundproofed the walls in here, the music was now just a loud hum in the background. The sudden change was actually quite off-putting. There were two low sofas on either side of the door facing each other, the walls a harsh white under the LED lights compared to the tasteful cream of the rest of the house. Just as soon as she'd come in, Izzy turned on her heel, as though she had forgotten something, and let go of my hand. I just turned around after her, too dizzy to follow, only to watch the back of Simon's head wandering after her. The edges of my vision would bur together as I turned from side to side looking at the paintings on the walls. On one side was this blue blob. Haha that sounds funny. And on the other, an intricate landscape hued with yellow and red. It's a certain type of red, one that I know. Does it start with C or V?

I don't know how long I stood there, just looking from side to side like It was my first-time seeing colour, but then there was a hand in front of my face, shaking violently. It took me a few blinks to realise that 1) the hand was coming from the arm of no other than Sebastian Verlac and 2) the couches that I had spotted as I first came into the room weren't empty. They were very, very full. About eight people were piled against the two sides of the narrow stretch of the room I was standing in. The silence that seconds ago was calming was now awfully deafening. So, who were they? The people on each side of me who had just seen me yo-yoing my head from side to side as if I had become completely delirious? Oh, you know, nobody, just the entire football team. No biggie.

It was just them, staring at me making a fool out of myself in a silent room and Sebastian Verlac had just waved his hand in front of my face – a very amused smile on his face. My whole body tensed. The eyes on me were panic attack-inducing. I was frozen, shoulders up around my ears like some pathetic rabbit in the headlights, for a few long seconds. I wish they were laughing but they were just judging statues. Utterly wooden, I turned on my heel as if I was Charlie Chaplin in a black and white comedy. But this wasn't funny at all for me. How had I thought letting my guard down for a night was going to be okay? Valentine was right, I was stupid, moronic, naïve. I was going to throw up. I reached my hand out for the door handle, twisted and pulled it only to be jarred back a step. Then there were snickers and my face turned a whole new level of beetroot red.

Verlac's foot had jammed the door from opening. His leg was stretched out from his position on the couch, grin still tattooed on his face. What hurt most was the fact there was no malice in his grin, he just found my floundering amusing. I was trapped but I kept my hand on the door handle. I didn't have the strength to move it. My eyes were still trained on the white door ahead.

"Okay Verlac, you've had your fun." In my peripheral vision, Sebastian's face snapped up to look at somebody on the opposite couch. His face steeled as if he wasn't quite ready to give up his game of cat and mouse and was definitely annoyed that someone wouldn't be enjoying it as much as he was. I dropped my hand form the handle as his foot didn't move. I really wanted to throw up now. The adrenaline in my body had cleared the delirium in my head. Every slight discolouration or flaw in the door in front jumped out and bit me. The smirk slipped off Sebastian's face.

"Jordan, would you get the door?" The angelic voice asked. Actually, it wasn't really a question, more of a civil demand. I'm not sure where that kind of ordering around sits in the bro code but Jordan's arm did awkwardly push the door open in front of me. The tension was most definitely cuttable and it wasn't only surrounding me now but also Sebastian's scowl.

I managed to take one step out of the room before my legs stopped again. Jordan must've followed me out as he snaked around me in the corridor. I wish I cared about how odd he must think me and how awkward it was going to become in English class. Maybe then I wouldn't have stopped once I left the room. Maybe then I wouldn't have turned around to look through the closing door at my saviour. Maybe then I wouldn't have seen the most dangerous expression on Jace Herondale's face: Curiosity.

**DUn DUn DUrrrrrrr... Hope you enjoy! Review please and tell me where you think this story is going to end!**


	7. My Right Cheek

**Hi everyone! Just realised three of my chapter titles start with the same word (so does this sentence), how's your day going? No but really- let me know. Also if you have any predictions or ideas about the story i'd like to read them. **

I had left the party last night as the Lightwood house was threatening to burst from the amount of tightly packed teenagers. Their night was just starting. Mine had well and truly finished. It had been sourly cut short by Sebastian Verlac and he didn't even know it.

It wasn't his foot jamming the door so I couldn't get out that scared me the most, however. It wasn't the visions of Valentine and bruised ribs that ran through my head when the door handle refused to turn. Oh, no. It was the way that Jace Herondale didn't laugh with his friends after I had finally left. How he had sat there with his eyes fixed on me, if only for a second, as if I was a shape moving in a shadow that he was struggling to distinguish. His eyes had clung to mine and now I couldn't shake them from my head.

I lay in bed the next morning, Pride and Prejudice on my nightstand, with a growing fear in my stomach. What was it that Valentine had said? 'Don't stand out'? The one thing that had been drilled into me was to make sure nobody took any significant notice of me. I had stood out last night, not only to the kingpin of high school hierarchy, but also the entire of the football team. I had one job, to be so painfully mediocre, and I couldn't even do that.

A loud engine sounded outside my window and I shot out of bed in a fit of blind panic. He couldn't be back yet. I hadn't tidied, washed up, vacuumed and all of the other things that didn't really need doing because I knew better than to make a mess. I almost fell out of my window before I saw that there was no black car in the driveway – only a retreating silver one disappearing down the street. Just a car driving down a street Clary. Swallow the lump in your throat, these things happen every day.

Elizabeth Bennett had just met Darcy whilst with her Aunt and Uncle, she was only just starting to like the man who was in love with her. Some of the words I still didn't understand, the phrases had grown unused with time and my vocabulary is obviously limited, but I managed to rapidly make my way down each page. It was almost excruciating to read – the two characters in separate states of denial, yet utterly perfect for each other.

I'm starting to understand Luke Garroway and his chaotic collection of classics a bit more with every book I read. Simon keeps asking for regular updates on what's going on, it has become one of his default conversation starters. Or 'Clary starters', as I like to call them. Because anybody who's met him for more than 30 seconds knows the boy himself can talk about anything for hours. It's a talent.

I hope I hadn't made Si worry last night. The headache bouncing around in my skull is embarrassing me but, at least, it's not Isabelle's. My feet froze on the stairs. Isabelle. Isabelle Lightwood, the drunk, smiling girl who grabbed my hand to lead me through the crowd and then sat by my side, laughing at stupid jokes the dorkiest guys in the year were cracking. That was an odd character development that I hadn't expected. Isabelle Lightwood was an undeniably nice person. Who had disappeared with Simon pretty late into the night.

It was a pretty bright morning. Sunlight coming through the wide kitchen windows as I cook myself some breakfast. The house is so quiet. I hate it. Every surface is white, spotless and sterile. The latest vase stands proud on the kitchen counter. I grab my favourite bowl and pour the hot oats into it, choose a spoon and sit down on one of the high breakfast chairs around the counter. This is my relaxed morning routine. I prefer it to my usual more perilous one.

After eating, I return to my room where I will inevitably stay until I have to leave for my shift at the bookstore. That gives me a little over two hours to kill. There's dew on the grass outside, I can see it as I open my bedroom curtains. It makes the grass look like it came out of a catalogue. That chimney in the distance, slightly to the left as a cause of the winding road, the one made from old brick that's been weathered by the rain and wind, I now know is the Lightwood's house. It's not too close, I can only just about distinguish it from the others but the gardens in this neighbourhood are so large it's probably less than ten doors away. That whole other life is just out of reach. Other people really don't live like I live, do they?

The chimney was all soft around the edges – blending into the skyline like an oil paintin-oh fuck, I burnt my tongue.

Ow ow ow ow owww. I stick it out of my mouth, trying to cool it down with the air. It's not working. Ewww… now my own tongue tastes like sandpaper. God has betrayed me. I still eat the oatmeal though; it tastes too good not to.

Before I know it, I've sat looking at some math homework questions without doing them for half an hour, read as much Jane Austen my brain could take and it's 10:30. Time to get ready and go. I haven't worked at the bookshop for very long, I haven't even known it existed for very long, but I am already loving it. I'm still thinking of asking Luke if I could give it a fresh coat of paint – with no labour cost, of course. But that will to wait a while, I suppose, until I feel like he might take my opinion into consideration. Until I'm at least half confident he won't just write me off as stupid and whiny.

Hopefully, it will be busy, and I'll be able to get my mind off how badly I embarrassed myself last night. Oh god. Now I'm thinking about it. If it's not busy I'll just have to try my hardest to sort through as many of the books in Luke's office as I can. Turn myself into a book-sorting machine for a day. Apart from my lunch break which I can probably run home in and grab something. Last time I didn't want to risk being late back, so I just didn't stop working.

I brushed my teeth and then tackled my hair and then pulled my converse on, lacing them tight. After grabbing my set of house keys off the counter, where I had thrown them last night, I make my way out of the house and down the driveway.

It's getting drearier and drearier outside as the world gets closer to the Christmas holidays. There was a countdown on Mr. Bartholomew's classroom whiteboard. The skies closed in in winter; I much prefer spring and the fresh air it brings to even the smallest streets of New York.

I took my time getting to the bookshop, letting my feet take their time down the tarmacked sidewalks. The air smelt like winter. It smelt of rotting leaves and the dark. I started to walk faster, suddenly finding the idea of the dusty bookshop shelves much more inviting.

My dreams seemed to come true as when I pushed open the heavy, peeling, blue door, I opened it onto second hand-bookshop rush hour. There were two families browsing to the right of the store and three individuals walking amongst the left shelves.

I looked for Luke, unsurprisingly finding him roaming the shop and replacing a stray book on a corner shelf. With the doorbell signalling my entrance he quickly looked up and, after recognising me, gestured for me to aid one of the family groups who looked a little lost.

Stashing my keys and phone behind the counter in my own little slot, I collected myself and walked over to the parents.

"Hi, is there anything I can help you with?" I ask in my politest voice possible with a small smile.

"Do you have any copies of Charlotte's Web? We've had a look but can't quite find it." The mother replies. She has brown hair swept up into a casual knot and warm light brown eyes but it's her cheeks, that turn almost completely round when she smiles back at me, that let you know she's a great mom. A little skewer wedges itself in my gut and twists a little before I manage to dislodge it.

"I'm not quite sure but I'll have a look." I say before hurrying away to the 'W' section. Luckily, we studied a passage from this text in an English class last year, otherwise I would've been exposed as an ignorant fraud for not knowing the author.

I find a copy with a fairly intact cover with a pretty, illustrated cover and take it back over to them. I end up helping them find a few other books and it makes me realise that don't bookstores usually have alphabetical labels so that not only the staff can tell where the books are without inspecting the titles? I locate Luke again and go over and ask him – in much politer words of course.

"Oh yeah those," he said after a moment, "I used to have some, but I thought they made the store look clumsy."

"Clumsy?" I asked, unsure of what he meant.

"Yeah," he says casting his eyes over the rest of the shelves critically, "They used to be these cheap stickers that I decided I didn't like."

I had to hand it Luke, he spoke very evenly and calmly. Just by the tone of his voice you could tell he was a good person and even, most probably, a nice one. And, what's more, is that he was really listening to me as if what I was saying mattered to him. That's how I found the words:

"…I could make some uncheap, nice-ish ones if you'd like?" …before I really even thought about it.

He turned his head down to look at me then and stopped analysing the store. I turned my eyes away quickly.

"Make some? What do you mean?" He asked intently. This was a bit awkward now, I hope he didn't think I was criticising his lack of labelling. That would come across super rude. Taking care with my words but them still, inevitably, sounding wrong I replied.

"I could paint them. I like painting. If that would be okay?"

"You like to paint?" He asked, his eyebrows lifting and expression opening. Without giving me time to reply, he continued, "Yes, that's okay."

Looking back on it, as I sat at the cash register (Luke sorting papers in the back room), I realised that it was an odd interaction. He had walked away from me after agreeing to my suggestion of labels that I was honestly surprised I suggested in the first place. After I had mentioned painting, his body language had made several minute shifts: he stopped standing on one leg, changing to an even stance on both, he stopped looking in my eyes and started looking through them, and his hand stopped brushing against the side of his jeans – it stilled at his side. Body language was a language that was highly advantageous for me to be fluent in.

I was trying (and failing) to smooth my prickling spine, when the door opened and none other than Simon Lewis himself stepped into the shop. He was looking particularly gangly today and I couldn't help but allow myself a small smile.

He saw me straight away and almost skipped over to me.

"Clary, good to know you're alive." He said, a harmless joke at first but after a second of it hanging in the air his brow creased.

"Yeah, you're still stuck with me, sorry Si." I smiled – hopefully not noticeably tightly. He shook his head, as if trying to dislodge something from within and then turned to me with a lowered voice.

"Seriously, I didn't see you leave last night. Did you get home okay?" Reading between the lines of his concern was pretty easy. He pulled a nearby, high stool over to the other side of the counter. Not the side with the cash register but the side with the piles of paper and pen pots. So, hopefully, I wouldn't get into too much trouble with Luke.

"I'm fine Si. How was the end of your night?" I said and he gave himself away instantaneously. He let his head fall down as if in a dream for a second, lifting it back up to show me the definition of a boyish smile.

"That good, huh?" I raised my eyebrows, "That's funny because the last time I saw you, you were following a certain girl down a hallway."

And his face said it all. Or rather it didn't, as he hid it from me. Unfortunately, our conversation was cut short by the family I had helped earlier coming up to the counter.

As I helped the mother with the round cheeks count up her books and what looked to be her daughter's books, Si sat looking around at the shop – recovering from whatever attack made him hide. I was still getting used to how the register worked so it took embarrassingly long to print a receipt and I could feel Simon laughing at me even though his face stayed impressively straight in front of the customers. Finally, I handed them the little slip of paper and they slipped away.

"She kissed me, Clary."

"Wow Simon that's . . ." Less than I was expecting honestly. They were both pretty, um, free of inhibitions.

"Right here, on this very cheek," he taps his finger on the side of his face, "I always knew I preferred my right cheek."

"You came to my work to tell me Izzy kissed you on the cheek?" This boy will kill me.

"What should I have done? Waited till Monday to tell you?" I huffed in response, blowing a strand of hair out of my face.

The there was a short pause in conversation caused by another customer coming to pay for books. When I say 'short' it was just 'shorter' as I became more practiced in receipt printing. Then he was gone and there was only a singular lady in the opposite corner of the store.

"Do you think she could ever actually like me Clary?" It was a serious question that caught me off guard.

"What do you mean? Why couldn't she like you?" I busied myself with ordering a random bunch of newspaper clippings chronologically.

"She's just, well she's Isabelle Lightwood, ya know? And I'm just Simon. I don't know. I know it doesn't make any sense." He shook his hands as if worshipping a God at the sound of her name.

I thought about it for a second. Recovering from the shock that Simon actually had serious emotions that weren't some shade of yellow.

"Have you ever thought that she's probably as sick of being Isabelle Lightwood -," I mimicked his gesture of glory, "-as everyone else is at not being?"

He didn't answer just gave a slow nod. We lapsed into comfortable silence. He left about twenty minutes afterwards, we'd started a conversation about the anatomy of raspberries by then. Luke had come out of the back room by then a couple of times but, luckily, he didn't seem to mind Simon being there. In fact, quite the opposite, he was pretty welcoming.

My shift passed pretty quickly after that – it was much busier than last week, and I helped re-stacking shelves and did whatever Luke asked with the miscellaneous heaps of papers. Did I mention he has lots of papers just everywhere? I did manage to power walk home and back to make a sandwich for lunch, but I ended up having to eat it whilst I walked back. What can I say? The artistry that is sandwich architecture takes time.

Before I knew it and after what felt like hours, I was lying on my bed again. Stomach resting on bedspread, ankles crossed up in the air behind me, reading Jane Austen.

The vase on the kitchen counter was quite nice. I hoped Valentine's business trip went well.

**Let me know what you think! The good, the bad and the ugly. Thanks for reading.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Hey! If anyone has any book recommendations (preferably classics and not YA) please let me know :) I hope everyone is baking lots of banana bread ad breathing fresh air. & of course, sorry this is late and thank you three metric tons for staying with this story.**

That Monday I handed in my art project. I had been up late the night before finishing it and I still wasn't perfectly happy with it (the edges were smooth but not smooth enough, the paints were cheap and certain colours took three coats to show up), but it was done. Of course, I didn't use as many different types of clay as I had originally intended as that was still over budget. But, I think it turned out okay.

I had made a selection of intricate candle holders. Some were small, almost flat to the ground like miniature plates and painted with little fairy-tale scenes (there was one of a castle overgrown with rose bushes, one of a deserted tall tower wrapped in ivy and one of a girl riding a polar bear, trying to outrun the setting sun). Some were tall, letting the candle shine through the carved out birds, trees, suns and moons. There were some that were in the middle – it was a varied mixture, each one individual. I found the piece's driving force as I went along which is what I usually do with my art and fairy stories had become a very prominent theme by the third 'pot'.

It was a hassle getting it all to school that morning. I had to go against my natural instincts and actually be early getting to the bus stop in order to find a good seat. There was only one casualty in transit and that was of a single pinhead-sized rose that I found hiding in the corner of the cardboard box I had arranged them all in.

My teacher loved it. She even stuck the rose back on for me herself.

Simon had made a clay 'pac-man' game in the end, clay ghosts, clay square board, clay Pac-man. It was quite the poorly painted spectacle. We played it all lunch. Apparently he'd tried to make a model Batman first but that hadn't worked out. He wouldn't show me pictures.

The next two school weeks were pretty uneventful. Apart from Simon's accidental eye-stalking of Isabelle Lightwood. Accidental but not subtle. One time I thought she noticed but she had no visible reaction, she just kept nodding along to whatever Kaelie Whitewillow was saying.

Valentine came back Tuesday whilst I was at school. We got a new vase for the kitchen, it's periwinkle blue.

I happened to twist my ankle Tuesday too which caused my limp for the rest of the week. It made carrying groceries (Valentine had given me exact change, down to the very dollar) back from the main street a bit of a handful. I actually fell over and collided with a fence one time, but I didn't crack a single egg so I count that as a win.

My only stimuli came from my weekend shifts at the bookshop. November was closing and the Christmas rush was commencing. The first Saturday Luke had asked me to fill out an employee form and I hovered over the emergency contact info before, reluctantly, filling in Valentine's details. His name in black and white settled a little sourly in the back of my throat. There was no explanation, no matter how false and elaborate, that I could think of that would've let me leave it blank.

Luke asked about the alphabet cards I had offered to paint and I apologised profusely. I had forgotten all about them.

By the next Saturday I had finished A through to Z. It had been a hectic week painting them but school work was easing off and I had nothing else better to do. A was 'Alice In Wonderland' and I had painted a square of card with a simple forest background, a cream coloured 'A' stood in the clearing with a curious Alice peeping round from the behind. I had to make them all very simple designs (so I that I could have had any hope of finishing them) but I still ended up rushing Y and Z that very morning. What was Z you ask? Honestly, I think it's rather rude of you to try and catch me out like that but you are right, I did have to cheat a little for some of them. I was stumped for book titles beginning with Z so, instead, the little card has a very glamourous lady in full 1920s flapper attire: Zelda Fitzgerald. I'm actually pretty pleased with that card. But, maybe, her and Daisy Buchanan have merged too much in my mind. Who knows.

I handed the stack of 26 to Luke reluctantly and very aware he could just hate these as much as he hated the last set. He turned them over in his hands. He has thick fingers, weathered and calloused. There was dirt under his nails and his nails themselves were broken, splintered. For a moment, I thought he was going to look at every single one but he stopped at E before suggesting putting them up with the sticky-tack stored under the desk. My palms stayed sweaty for a while after that.

There were only three weeks left of school before the Christmas holidays began and I was hoping that if I asked both Luke and Valentine nicely, I'd be able to take up some extra shifts so I wouldn't have to spend every hour with the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. If Valentine became suspicious about why I wanted the money I would be more than happy to give it all to him.

It was when I was putting up the letter 'P' when the bell chimed. It was the fourth time that hour so I didn't pay much attention at first. Usually I'd always keep an eye on the door but I had got a little lost in the slight smudge on Elizabeth Bennet's left shoe. It was small but it was there. Unluckily, I didn't have enough time to feel like a failure of an employee when Luke had to call me from the back office to help with a customer at the register because I had been neglecting my duties. I didn't have enough time because any possible emotions were immediately replaced by sickening anxiety.

Stood there at the till, looking as out of place as a barnacle in a desert, was Jace Herondale. His clothes were the same, black jacket, black jeans, white t-shirt. In fact, the only difference I could make out between school Jace I saw on Friday to Saturday was the lack of company. Stood by himself he didn't look as superior as maybe he would've liked. Still I would've rather walked over some hot coals than say a single word to him. My nearly-threadbare navy sweater with miscellaneous stains on and unflattering jeans weren't doing my confidence any favours.

"Just a refund I think Clary." Came Luke's voice from the back. Why couldn't he have taken this customer? The answer, of course, came moments later when he walked out with a stack of papers so high he was cradling it like a baby with his chin perched on top.

I had managed to squeeze in behind the desk without looking much at Jace and it seemed he hadn't been looking much at me either as when Luke (so kindly) called my name I caught his head jerk just a fraction in my peripheral vision. Seeing popular kids in school was one thing, but seeing them outside of it… Why does my stomach feel like it's been coated with vinegar?

Luke walked out the front door of the shop and seemingly disappeared and left me for dead.

"I'd like to return some books." He said after a pause. I still hadn't looked him in the eye. For fucks sake Clary, it's not that hard. Just function like a normal human being for once I swear to whichever and whatever God.

"Can I ask why?" I replied, trying my best customer service voice. I even managed to look him in the eye for a fraction of a second. I had to look away because he had just been staring at my head, waiting for me to look up. He obviously didn't have the same 'quirky' eye contact fear that I had. It was so quirky I was afraid to touch the books he pushed across the desk to me in case my sweaty palms left grease stains all over them. That's not cute or remotely romantifiable.

"My sister bought them for me but I had already read most of them." I looked up at him then but only because fear was momentarily masked by shock. He just looked back at me as if challenging me to comment on it. At least he was self-aware I guess.

I continued to go through each book, flip to the first page and rack up the prices. I'd never done a refund before so that made for double panic. I just hoped the rest of the customers didn't find the awkward silence as deafening as I was.

He started tapping his fingers on the desk and I was tempted to revert to my previous two-dimensional-asshole opinion of him. His hands were tan, smooth in their long lines and youth, but not immaculately manicured. My inner, insufferable artist couldn't help but want to see them on a sunnier day to see if they shadowed like a Michelangelo. Of course they would; Mr. Perfect would have Mr. Perfect-Michelangelo-hands. Alright, I could hate everything about him apart from the inevitable way his hands would hold shadows. That would be doable. Ugh, is there a helpline for victims of Pretty Privilege?

He stopped tapping his fingers and shifted on his feet as I continued to keep my eyes down and start to count out coins.

"You were at Izzy's party a couple of weeks ago."

Fuck. I had almost convinced myself it didn't happen. My mouth opened and closed.

"You couldn't open the door. Or, maybe, you just didn't _want_ to open the door and leave the team alone."

He sucked in a breath through his teeth and fixed his eyes on me as if my eyes were going to talk, not my mouth.

"But, you see, that wouldn't make sense because Jordan said you don't talk to him at all in your English class. If you wanted to climb the social ladder you would've been saying hello at least. Maybe adding in a little wave on alternate Tuesdays. So that leaves the question why couldn't you physically open the door?"

By the time this little speech was over I was seething. My cheeks were flaming. The coins frozen in my hand. Whatever I had expected from this interaction, it wasn't this. He disgusted me. I was disgusted by him. Every word said so levelly, so calmly as if he wasn't stamping on the squeaky steps in the haunted house. One more step he'd fall through. Arrogance, pure and simple. Arrogance, refined and boyish. I wanted to throw up but my throat was too dry. Instead, I pushed a collection of coins across the counter.

"That's $8.15"

As if I'd ever want to stay in a room with you or Jordan or any member of your jumped-up, redbull-drinking, IQ-less-than-80 teammates. Fuck you, your mother and any body who has ever contributed anything to your existence.

Luke came back into the shop then. Just in time to miss Jace's ignorantly apathetic smirk but hear:

"Thank you, Clary. You've been a great help."

When I would come to think back on this later, I would try to reassure myself that to spread any type of rumour around the school he would have to admit to talking to me. In a book shop no less. The explanation he would give for that, I was just as intrigued as everybody else.

I hate that boy. Ill chop off his hands myself if I have to.

I didn't move until he had left the shop and disappeared down the street.

He didn't know anything Clary. Not really. He was just trying to make you feel embarrassed. You think he'd ask because he actually wanted to know? No, he just wanted to make you uncomfortable. Popular kids like him get a kick out of that shit.

There was so much wasted adrenaline in my veins I thought I could actually feel them pulsing.

Woodenly, I walked away from the crime scene and continued putting the labels up. I had gotten all the way to Zelda Fitzgerald before noticing I'd done anything at all. Luke ended up helping some customers which made me cringe, that was what he was paying me for.

It wasn't until the end of my shift that I allowed myself to walk back to the desk. I couldn't even talk to Simon about this - he disliked Jace more than most people. Usually, we'd laugh about all the embarrassing but unimportant school stuff like this. Like the one time Simon coughed when he was drinking and water came out of his nose. In front of a silent history class.

$8.15. The coins were still on the table. He'd never picked them up. Was this guy trying to mess with me? Or did it just come naturally to him.

It was a grey walk home, the sky was completely clouded over so I didn't have to worry about shadows and sunshine golds. My feet were thudding into the tarmac. I think subconsciously I was trying to make such a big noise that I didn't have any opportunity to listen to anything going on in my own head.

It wasn't working too well.

Valentine's car wasn't in the driveway. I couldn't hear him in the house either but I still made sure not to make a sound when I kicked off my shoes. Its times like this when I'd like to try slamming a door.

No matter how hard I tried that night or through the next day the image of the coins on the dark, fake wood counter wouldn't shake. I finished Pride and Prejudice out of desperation, only to find myself wondering if Jace fucking Herondale had read it. Jace Herondale. Clary, that's got to be a joke. He is perhaps the antithesis of Jane Austen's target audience.

I swung myself up, off my bed and walked over to open my window. It was a stiff handle and I almost gave up. Glimpses of the Lightwood chimneys were even darker against the one-tone sky. The air felt heavy with rain and smelt sweet with rotting leaves. Papers on my desk flew to the floor.

For the soap opera of high school, this was a plot twist I didn't see coming. They're the characters, everybody else are just spectators – perhaps (if they were lucky), with a guest feature on episode 4: 'Girl Who Fell Down The Stairs In Assembly And We Laughed When She Cried'.

It started to rain. Sheet rain. The type that causes car crashes and three layers of soaked clothes.

Whether or not this was a huge point of character development, he was still the guy who let his friends throw the chess clubs' chess pieces into the school pool. He's not a mystery he's a complicit asshole. Whom I hate. Especially because even if he had read Pride and Prejudice (which, of course, he hasn't) I bet if Sebastian, Jordan or any other one of them asked him if he had he would say he hadn't.

That thought was comforting at least. Even if he was well read, he was undeniably just a well-read douchebag. He'd created his own genre.

I closed the window, shielding my face from the splattering drops. The inside glass dripped onto the window-sill and then onto my wall. The gates clanged distantly; A few seconds passed and then the sound of a car engine shutting off. There were bigger fish to fry than Jace Herondale, maybe someone should tell him.

**Alright... that was that. hope it was okay & thank you to everyone following/reading/supporting The Calm & Th Storm. Bye!**


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